Gently, she goes
as soft as a fawn
opens the window
and waits for the dawn
fireflies glow
wind caresses her face
as she sheds all the shadows
not leaving a trace
She dons velvet darkness
wrapped in its cloak
releases all poisons,
                 sylphlike,
             in smoke
She is preparing for battle
in her own, quiet way
She only wants wholeness
as she breaks through the gray
For soon she will weave
prismatic wonders of spells
her own inner aurora
lighting heaven from hell
For suffered she has
and it's time to forgive
unlock self-made prisons
and let herself live
and now as sunrise approaches
stars still in sight
she turns the skeleton key
and glides
into
             flight

Sleep now my beautiful princess
That when the morning calls
You rise so sylphlike and
Gleam like the sun

Yay, it's another lovely Barry Hodges "Memories" poem.*

How happily I recall the excitement of my visits to Lewisham's hospital
For my regular "haemorrhoid adjustment/re-alignment" sessions,
During which time I made the acquaintance of a nursing sister
With possibly the fiercest libido in south-east London.
And one night, whilst we were "on the job" in her comfy cubicle,
I glanced over her fat shoulder through the cracked observation window.

Ah yes, dear reader, it was the relatively cleanish Ward G
(the terminal one where the near-dead await merciful release,
wittily nicknamed "the happy dreamers' room" by the matron,
an evil predatory old **** with a 40-inch waist and wild halitosis);
I watched a spectacularly ugly nurse peering o'er the screen
Around poor old ******* Bertie "Big *****" Bloggs.

His wasted, crippled, whitened pyjamed form
Lay twitching on the none-too-clean patched sheets;
He opened his unseeing, ancient eyes and gave voice:
"Give us a gobble" the old ****** croaked pathetically,
"You know you want to, you fat smelly *****".
And then he croaked.  Unsucked and unloved,

O my beloved lector, compassionate creature that thou art,
Surely thy pleasure will be utterly intensified to learn that
The NHS bedsheets were indelibly and spectacularly stained
As his bowels opened spontaneously with Death's kindly appearance.
"Gor ******* blimey, what a ******* horrid pong," came a groan:
('twas Sammy "No Legs" Smith in mid-**** on a nearby trolley).

These events in the ward led to an inevitable result for me:
You have divined it correctly, O treasured fan of mine,
Yea verily, the happenings I espied made me blow my ***
Most prematurely and my love-partner, the sylphlike Sister Sally,
Was so sodding annoyed she crushed my tender haemorrhoids
Quite brutally in her surgical spirit-hardened left hand.

a wicked, unrighteous child's mind
lies closer to the truth
than a noble graybeard's ever will &
here is that only, hideous verity:
death has the body of a boy.
an ocherous-haired boy, sylphlike,
unearthly, peerless and
other word to forbear from writing 'beautiful'.

guiltless people do not know that.

'irradiating one, let me hold you', he says,
and i let him. i can recall swearing,
palms pressed together and liquid lungs
settled at the bottom of a bathroom sink,
never to allow to be eaten again
because that is what holding someone is for;
(guiltless people do not know that.)

be that as it may,
i let him.
forgiveness was never
suited for me, anyway.

there can be no fallacy;
no fraud can remain a fraud
once they are birdlimed
by a fire-stricken embrace.
a mindless prey is what they become.
a devourer is what he always was.

guiltless people do not know that.

my eyelids will not yet sink over my pupils,
not until his hidden claws,
ribboning and shredding their way
out of his unsoiled skin, turn
my neck into bloodbath,
my heart into maelstrom.

what a blessed, glory-driven way to meet death.

The final call
Breathe,
Slow and gentle,
Like your trying to make a candle flicker,
The darkness shifts shapes,
In and out,
(how else would you breath?
Up down?),
Smile,
Practice your face,
Carefully control each muscles contraction,
Tightening,
To create a (forced) relaxed face,
You spiral your hair around your finger,
Wind and unwind,
Twist your fingers around each other,
Tangle into bending shapes,
Stop,
Smile,
Just be normal for five ******* minutes.

Curtains up
The act has started,
No mistakes,
The shell must be maintained,
No cracks,
‘I’m fine’ (I’m breaking),
‘everything is great’ (everything hurts),
‘I will be okay’ (I want to die),
Look carefree,
Sylphlike.
Your cracking,
Your (pretending to be) tall,
Holding the space,
The room,
As much as your (small) body can,
Your actions exaggerated,
Slowed,
They see only (the fake) you.

Curtains fall
Just in time.
They cant know,
No muscles in your face contract,
This is you,
Dead eyed, dejected you,
The candle has blown out,
Smoke rises from the wick,
Curling,
Choking you,
Until you convulse,
Until your reflection shatters,
Lines cut through you,
The pieces fall on to the floor,
And you are empty.

Black,
Bleak,
A shadow.

Curtain call

When you glaze
this wooded trails
with your gossamer spell,
paint frosted-glass abstracts
in green undertones...

when you caress
the blooming buds of Morning Glory
to purple nymphs,
snug in your silky, satin blanket...

when you perch on this valley,
permeate its soul,
wrap it in your frosty artistry...

when heaven’s ingenuity
weaves splendour
through your sylphlike fingers,
O morning mist,
wrap me up in your silver haze,
seep into my soul,
infuse in me
the mysterious awe
of your ethereal magic.

languid touch oozes from small claws; they do not yet know the wonder of keratin
my body is no temple. it has been harrowed by years of disillusionment
racked by anticipation
oh, the notion of some epagomenal redeemer to lift my vessel from damnation!
tears stream heavy and hot
soul is devoured
what remains is a moon-sliver; a sylphlike cadaver, an effigy of a bone ****** dry of marrow
from the rib came life