Bury me with the collated history of poetry
with
the enormity of being condensed
with
the bible of life and death
written for and by real women and real men
with
the text digging erotically
into my solar plexus
defying the next world,
with
the footnotes
mystery rendered explanation across my chest
unfurled ...
don't place my hands
like a well-manufactured tent
I won't be sleeping I lament,
but instead, shape me into an embrace
just
in case,
The black suit will do though,
no man's land,
the anti-fashion
death of religion,
the sharp-collared precision
of shadow passing through shadow
once
again.
The desperate
rapturous
explosion
of unclothing,
The method to the
madness
one inside one
implosion,
Pull
tear
shred
unravel,
Wonder with
wide eyes
at the
succulent
fleeting
sight of
exposure,
Oh yes wonder like a spellbound
love struck camera
before the tyranny of memory,
Cumbersome
and laden with layer
after
layer,
Overdressed by time
irrevocable,
Before the Alexandria like library
of
love
is burnt to the ground
and reduced to the travesty of object ?
To
the relic of your blue shirt,
Which now after the near impossible erotic moment
made for a moment possible
by nostalgic accident
is all that remains
of the monumental empire
that was us in happier days,
Oh yes I wail
your blue shirt
is now all that's left,
Your blue shirt
mine before we first met
but then yours throughout your absence?
Your flickering reintroduction of presence
and then mine once more
since you for the last time
last
left,
Its shape now moulded
by the shape of your breast,
Its fibres now fragranced
by your soft skin
as it now
sleeps in my bed
cradled tearfully in my arms,
As it mine once more
pretends to be you
but is of course nothing but a relic
a
memory
the
hollow you
glory
de-fleshed.
