Night Poem XXII

Night of my nameless grief,
I mourn the death of my child,
the girl who was never born.

She had long, devilish curls
and a song for every shadow.
Her piercing eyes
conquered my frayed and shaggy sorrows.

The child I loved was not her mother’s
was not my own.
She was never born.

She fled like all unspoken things
when I left and shacked up with
that bitch, solitude.

Night of my nameless child,
I mourn the death of my grief,
the one who was never here.

There is an infinite ache on my shoulders
where she sits,
hot hands clutching my ears.

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Night Poem XVIII

Beautiful mama,
you’re burning up.
What terrible fever have
I put in you?

All night,
the fever burns you
in and out of love.
Damn it baby, I want your fever too.

Your skin hot on my tongue,
your breasts like flame,
your violent whimpers
scratch like thorns.

The louder you get,
the closer I come to a star of agony.
Beautiful mama, I’m burning up.
What terrible fever have you put in me?

I want your disdain,
I want your coy hips,
I want your blood’s exhaustion,
I want the anarchy of your dark sheets.

Night Poem XIII

You, my most terrifying friend,
I have needed you before all others.
When the women in my life
pained me with a broken shard of perfume,
I sought you in the moonlit streets,
and we would converse
in wide arcs of anger and solitude.
Being a morose man, I needed your dark humour.
And when the world took its too solid forms,
as if to spite me,
and the day threatened me with
a well laid plan,
I would come to you,
my oldest, most terrible friend,
wine bottle tucked under my sleeve,
ready to erase the edges of what I was becoming,
and you would remind me of what is essential;
the absurdity of the moon,
the chaos in my heart.

A Kind of Madness

I couldn’t say where she is,
who she is with,
or what time she sleeps.
This sky stretches out
like an eternity of whispers,
and a tearing need blows from the east.

You ask why I can’t forget,
why I can’t just roll up my
pain with my sleeves
and get on with the business
of dying with other lovers,

fucking and bickering,
and making up,
until the sun herself
grows jaded, evicts me
from the wasted night.

You ask me why I can’t forget
a scent of wild hours
that dwelt in the dark armpits
of her fragrant life.
I don’t know, I don’t know why.

I am infected with a madness
of un-returned salt,
and even the calmest hour
is an ambush of memory.

I would like, somehow,
to exit this body of
congealed thirst,
the way one absently leaves a room,
and go far beyond
an earth of remorse

to a hill, a tower,
an unfamiliar town
that doesn’t recall me.
And then, I too
would know the liberation
of the one who kills love.