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Damsel Poetry 1
A meter from your heart outward,
the blood, the stickiness of it all
in summer heat.
The worms won’t reach you today
as the sun sets they will only sit
and watch.
Ghostliness sickens us all, this much is true.
A poem can be words, lines and meter-
a pretty pattern mosaic
made by people much smarter than me.
But the bright stretches between
as one pale hand reaches from the veil
and beckons to the humdrum of it all-
the cricket heartbeat murmur of touch.
Ghostliness sickens us all, this much is true.
When you died I read from the pale Bible,
(John 1:14 and His many rooms. )
I found those rooms empty and cold-
the service was a dead-circuit mausoleum.
Mother, radio woman, skeletal wonder-
you work like a robot would
and I the battery of smoke
dancing in your ash.
Damsel Poetry 2
I am sat with my feet two centimetres from the ground, and six feet below me is a rolling tide of sediment. With rattling bones drifting in and out of the shoreline.
I wonder in the jumble of it all if the bones stay with their fellows, or if its the ligament-y skeleton that binds them. Ground and earth with no sense of kindred but the elemental. And so the catacombs are painted white.
Damsel Poetry 3