PACKING WHAT’S THAT WHY SHOULD I DO RESPONSIBILITY WHEN I CAN WRITE ARCANE METAPHORS WITH UNDERLYING MILDLY OBSCURE THEMES OF OVERWHELMING IRRELEVANCE
I
The tile is warm
The halogen is bright
The seats are empty
and I am cold.
II
Go on, speak to me,
at me, tell me my faults,
throw your daggers
towards me, and through me
let your guilt be assuaged.
III
Catalogue (if you would)
the specks on my face
the scars on my thighs
taste the sweat dried
in jagged lines across my chest.
Take it, and let the salt nourish
your hate.
IV
Please, speak.
Let the gold tips
of your speech crack.
Let the black plastic
masquerade
be seen in white truth
your talk fall flat.
V
I want to hold out,
you say, for dialogue,
until he wakes
until his dark hair
disappears again by
morning, mahogany
eyes nestling once
again among damask
and down.
VI
We know not, therefore we are.
VII
The seats are still empty
The lights still blind
The tile still warm
And I am dead.
