On either side of a chasm
we stand
You are like a blur on the horizon
But I can smell your perfume and make out
The tiny imperfections in the material your jumper
Is made of

You are not talking to me
But I can see your mouth move, and there’s
A difference between Canine and Incisor.

But I cannot look into your eyes
because your back is turned to face me

Not in anger, but in anguish

But I can see the stubs, the nubs
Where two wings sprouted up at sunset
Ripping apart your Pinion-Skin
You think they’re made of Silver-Golden feathers,
but I know them in the detail you cannot see,
because I see them every lunar cycle
And because I know them to be tough, leathery carbuncles
I hold a power over you
Because the bud has buried itself deep enough to
support dactyls long enough for you to see them
But, by that time, it will be too late
And Icarus won’t come and save you,
He’s already fallen from grace.

* * *
[p2]

You who have claimed to be in a state of readiness
to accept a child, you hands would be claws by then.
And your bosom would be as cracked and charred as
a lump of ash from a fire so knotted that it is unsplitable.

And as you bend down to comfort the child, your tongue
would hiss at its fork – for all your bitter words wore
away the honey coating God put there – and you could
not comfort baby, for you know no rest yourself.

* * *

But the most hideous thing about you
my dearest,
my love,
is your stone, stone heart
and the way you’ve left me cold, cold so cold
that I can only slither into a cafe when you aren’t here.

Your smile is like the sun
Your scorn is like ice
I know no indifference from you

And I’ve dropped my tail to come and rescue you,
so as to arrive with as little baggage as possible, and I’ve done this
so many times that it won’t grow back anymore
My tale is now
a withered parody of the rest of me

One fertile – now lain to waste.

It seemed that too much wasted chastity
has given way to an onset of hating hastily
and distaste, your distaste of me has been
my ultimate disgrace

is it me our you
who now
have fallen from grace

)

And was I always like this,
and were you always like that?

As from one rock, you can become a connoisseur of rocks
from this isolation, I have become a connoisseur of loneliness
of self intro-spection
and of the ability to see through all the p[r]etty
games people seem to play with each other

Break enough rocks down small enough and
You become the hammer
Dig enough holes in yourself, and you become
Your own shovel to make them bigger

And I’m already at one with the river
* * *

Small round rocks
on the riverbed
If I dwell down amongst you for long enough
the cold will take hold of my heart
And effect me so much, will it
that if I choose to close my eyes and will it
I can reach a certain closure
of my eyes, of my eyes
and no more will I ever see sky, the skies.