1.
He
is psychopath.
He wants her love truly madly deeply
delights in strata of pain she inflicts…
her brown eyes, twinkling cesspools,
her orgasms quickly bought,
a supermarket of vengeful
menstruation.
She is angel to his masochism.
Shit on me he begs,
but she will not stoop to his pleading,
making his humiliation
so much more poignant.
2.
4am
she
speaks into his answer-machine,
leaves
cryptic messages, suggestions of love
hints
that she might give over a small slice of herself
for
his safe-keeping.
Her
voice burrows, like a parasite,
into
his slow panicked waking.
She
rings off with psychic alacrity
and
will not respond
to
his constant ring-back requests.
Oh
the sweet agonies of too much love!
He
is besotted with the idea
that
he might never sleep again.
Love
is an angel, bottled in frosted glass.
He
heaps presents upon her,
suffused
with television tenderness.
She
bins everything he brings,
laughing
(with lilting, intoxicating voice)
she
informs him... bringing him
to
a violent climax of delicious agony:
he
could not be more humiliated
were
he to walk down Sauchiehall Street
saturated
in stale semen.
3.
She is sociopath.
She
perverts his dreams with 4am panicked calls,
feeling
the insecure threads of her treading water-ness.
Her
other lover has cut away, revved up outboard escape and she is overboard and
panicking,
needing
to be reassured…
but
the fucking phone is not not not doing her command,
so
she throws it out the amphetamine tripwired window
into
the Camberwell neon darkness
to
cacophonic chords
of
trip hop jungle ragga.
Water
will not balm her,
nor
the arms of an adoring-someone calm her.
She
cannot sleep for the chemical shite
in
the sewage pipes of her veins.
She
contemplates razorblades and all sorts,
while
listening to Bjork,
the
CD on a constant loop of repeat
until
dawn swallows
the
last of the night.
4.
He is idiolect.
The
semantics of masturbation
lulling
him to sleep.
Little fucking scrubber he thinks,
exhilarated
by the illusion
of
pornographic mastery:
he
is an idiot slave.
He
slathers like a lobotomised hound,
into
the grey underworld of nothing.
Love
hath his hands fetter bound.
5.
Light is not enlightenment.
Richard
& Judy cunt-manipulate her into placidity:
life
becomes... just so...
a
Coronation Street corona of smiling complaisance;
all
problems reduced to a lack,
filled
by product
and
prozak.
And
then she is crashed out
on
the aquamarine velour-covered settee;
dreaming
of wedding cakes, blushing boys,
a
universe collapsing in simplicity.
Then
she comes upon
the
well at the end of the world
where
the sweetest, most palliative waters are drawn,
but
if stolen
shall
surely put out
the
fires of heaven.
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