That empty clanging corridor is home.
Do I dream of my skin dripping
red and black like a velvet rose-

Even more fragrant than that!
Do you know the glory of my pain?
In the morning before anyone wakes
I sing songs more bright
than these

A melody about breaking like a leaf
and he whose booted foot dares
make me bleed is
he whose name I painstakingly hold
under my tongue for eternity.

I am sick but make me well
quell my angry hollow bones by
ripping them, my lover.

Quiet this myopic tune of lovesick housewife-
Strange man put me under your knife
and grip my throat til the song goes silent.

Lay your golden fingertips beneath
my cage of bone.
Do not hesitate,

I will burst into the brightest flame,
forget my name and eat your offerings
Like kindling and chilled night air.

4 thoughts on “Bled

  1. Hi K.,

    This poem puts me in the mood of castles and women at the window. Somewhere out there is a guy on a horse cutting down peasants. Not your intent, yet it is English sort of with the booted foot, a velvet rose, a throats under duress, bones both broken and caged, and you, laying there, all ripped. Looking at your poems over time (has it been that long?) they seem very new American, pointed, jarring, hopeless, etc. Now, occasionally, they seem more classical, as in English. I am wondering: does the style reflect your mood at any given time? I am used to thinking of style as being fixed, but if I am right, you might have a moving style that has not yet found its mooring. You see K., this is what we do here on THs. We analyse each other until somebody throws up. Anyway, I like the poem, even though WP won’t let me say so. Thanks. Duke

    Liked by 3 people

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