Friday, January 4, 2013

Two by Jack T. Marlowe


5am death dirge

the street
lamps shut
their eyes
and listen
to the sui-
cide cry of
5am, the
dry cough
of a night
run out of
gas, the
lament of
a gutted
love, its
tragic
breath
pungent
with decay
but wearier
and a
deeper
blue, the
throb of
exhaustion
as the
executioner
sings his
last torch
song, and
the sparrow
twitters her
response:
she has
no regrets
and he
wishes
that he
were
only
so
lucky 







a wretched intimacy

decorum is
dead, your
cheery
welcome
mat, no 
more than
an artifact
when
Misery
shows up
and steps
over the
corpse
and 
when
Misery
decides to
move in
she doesn't
wait for an
invite to
cross the
threshold
(of your
pain)
arriving
with all of
her usual
baggage
side-
stepping
the sofa to
claim your
bed, a perfect
setting for the
spectacle
of naked
suffering in
repose, her
legs spread
to expose the
grief-hewn
abyss
into which
you are
thrust
head
first

for a long
night of 
fucking
Misery





No comments:

Post a Comment