Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Arachnid. (1)

It feels like home, this place.

As though the rope of failure
has pulled tight and burned against the skin
to scar tomorrow
with the friction of yesterday's inaction.

I wanted to make some money.

I wanted to be loved.

I wanted to feel as though
these lies were the tooth
that was pulled by white skirts
and doctor's brow
a serious conversation
held with a mouthful of fear
and cottoned on
only by the eyes
(and in mine
the surprise)
that you might forgive
and understand
the hand the led the
ass
astray.

A red carrot in a foul mouth.

A candle by light
the delight
I took
in the look
you gave
when you caved
(finally)
after days
and the waves
meant the sea had returned
and so had I
but you didn't know that
or did not believe
you only saw
the wool and the weave
stuck to your eyes
as panic
as web
as loss
so you struggled
and I played the spider
(inside her?
beside her?
you fucking cunt
wider)
Yes
I was the spider

more afraid of you
than you ever were
of it

well hung
in a dark corner
catching flies
to survive
the night.

Waiting to be crushed
later
by the giant feet
of a real man.

That's the hole
beside my bed
that haunts
my dreams.

It's been there for years.

I cover it with paper
I cover it with
anything
I can find

but it never goes away

it remains
by
my

side.

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