Deluge
Another chance
Reuben in the rocket mass
of tongue necklaces. Opaquely
hanging me over the
studio apartments in question.
And I realise that I don't know
what keeps me afloat, when
everyday I am besmirched
and belaying,
for some great unknown cause.
Saying the things that
slip past my yo-yo hands,
into truth that can be
Digested by a crocodile- to be
Spat out when they lose their
meaning, laying the bricks of
the ground.
It is the burden of the red-clothed
woman to be always panting.
I swing between
the bead I cannot rise from,
Not a lazarus,
and the people I wanted to be
(not them either)
I don't believe in
second chances
It is the excess that will
ring the distress bells
Enfolding into endoscopic echoes
probing for cavities,
like the depressions
found in another's dimples.
It is not that I am misled
Erratic are the repeals that
follow me into revolving doors,
Where there is no backward glance
Nor trailing shadow of the sundial
But this is not a 1930s murder
In Mesopotamia, and I
have no footstool to overthrow.
No clay figurines to belittle.
I am just the person who wears too many jackets
And only one skin.
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