Monday, 1 April 2019

Four Sonnets (after Theresa)

And how I made a bed for you, and how
    before I’m sick that outburst shudders on
         in bed late payments leave their stains. I vow
in necks and sick to chuck the eldest son.
    So now alive, lay you my gentle dog
         head down upon your gorgeous tired stomach.
I am so out of love, but your back taut
    in knots through early hours, of a feeling
         sick with guilt in debt it thinks of you
without a lucid blot of false relief;
    the damp of air. To sing: Why do I hear
         the thundering panels sick yourself again.
So dream of finding lives to swallow up
    and lever up your own heart into dust.

Oh you like none have never truly planned
    for anyone sent out an even chance
         of not returning but to your command
the cadence waves of what they will have left.
    Drifting up to gaping air for breath
         the ingrain left upon the bench is death.
Heaving for the sky they were your take;
    bodies stutter ‘it was no mistake’.
         Cram your shoes back on and draw a lake;
the shore is close and we will be alive.
    So you watch them sink but first you take
         a sodden breath and push yourself far on.
Inside the weather you well understand
    it is time to go, and swallow up the sand.

Then if I am disgusted in your life
    it’s not because of you, but as you are:
         Imagine being sick but more like you;
              to find a little self care really hard.
Don’t be fearful love it’s not your fault:
    The terminal regime you called your life.
         I made a creepy home for you in salt
              and didn’t see you getting on the plane.
Destinies my fierce heart has rendered
    called “draconian”. I made them work for us,
         how in fucking hell I am remembered
              like being sick on holiday again.
Still with all the safeguards set in place
    you will  not eat what others put to waste.

Watching you eating the brain as it popped
    and I have been up with my stomach in hearts
a twitching nest of caterpillar nails
    nothing happened tenderly again, so
nowhere as acute or I would sick
    like nothing sick I made a creepy life,
oh you like none like perfect you my dog.
    In sick I made draconian my seas;
on holiday again to swallow down
    they gaze up lifeless but they must because
the gentle scream “hostility”, I said.
    Brain open as it popped and let the smell;
like nothing sick will happen when you die
    you chuck yourself and fade out from the air.