A condom made of sweet-wrappers, your left ear inside a light-bulb. Chinese children, a summer spent rolling in the poppies; a haystack for a house.
Ghandi in a pedalo, bewhiskered and bald, shares a cigarette with the park-keeper. "Whose house is this?" she asked, unexpectedly, her fingers trailing limply in the water, "My visa has run out, so I'm thinking of moving to Manchester." I tasted pollen when I kissed you and we watched the seeds drifting like tiny feathers in the sunset. That tuesday seems so far away now.
If there is a God, then let Him be a God of pale green monkeys, an Elvis on a plate. Let Him be a God of photocopied doorways and frost-smeared packets of frozen peas. An old photomontage of Biba models and dissected rabbits. A home for those who need it most.
A God of stolen hopes and molten dreams. Of broken crockery and cervical smears. Burning hair and broken legs.
And the smell of a childhood pet whose time has long since passed.
26 Jan 2008
My Prayer
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3 comments:
amen!:D
prose-poem mastery!!!
this is like the grain of nearly overwripe fruit.
washing my skin
wrought iron pipes keeping my eyes wide.
with my animal's flesh splayed across dining room tables and curtains shifting to the breath of candles. almost burnt into the sill. i will take this. and write it in my own hand so that the small thin paper can folded into a wallet that will never fall out.
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