“March – a self portrait” (CC BY-SA 2.0) ClickFlashPhotos / Nicki Varkevisser
Quartet
I shot myself
But I can’t seem to recall how it felt
I memorized a bullet while I held the feather-light handgun
Through my pallet as a knife through my throat
I gazed at the sky-rises
Long and gray blocks which nurtured or propagated
in front of my eyes
They seemed to believe they were steps on a slow tedious ascent
Later they all crashed, one after the former,
into a whirlwind of ashes
I felt myself on a trip
My breath was small, my nerves jittery as if I’d run away
The last wagon on a chain, hissing through peaks, parishes and hail
I felt the drops of sea as I sat on the windowsill of my dray,
a rectangle with a single wooden frame.
It was a ballroom dance
Beside a man I cannot see
Who dragged me to a bathroom stall and took me
in a never-ending way
Again, and again, and again, you would say.
Blood
Nothing matters more than blood; they say
Colour pink, red in a purple haze
Treacherous, lying, thieving
But nothing matters more than blood; they say
Colour of love, doom and despair
Rhythmic beating, streaming free and cheating
Cries and misunderstandings
In a world of differences
Nothing to say, no way to care
But blood.
Nothing matters more than blood; they say
Give me something more; I say
Dead Woman’s Daughter
I sit on my silky smooth silver-laced chair.
And they come and go,
Scents of cheap perfume in clouds of smoke
I wait.
I sense the first approach
Pouty red acrylic lips escorted by a cacophony of gold
You have her smile she whispers.
And so I beam.
I feel the second one behind my ear
Breath of expensive Single Malt and morsels of the Bread of Life
You have her hair he whispers
And so I put my fleece down.
The third glowers from afar
Ginger shaved arms coloured with pearls and a shinny gown
You have her figure she smirks
And so I sit up square.
The fourth taps my shoulder crudely
Coat as grey as smog, Cuban cigar and pointy fangs
You have her legs he whispers
And so I open them wide.
