sorrowlost

I

The sag of full moons soggy and bewitched, it seems

Fingers that didn't know the touch sense,

Wiped blank, clean-slate, until you were

Something I regretted. Lord, King, the

First worthless-giver to my persona,

Handed it over like a bouquet, you, bridegroom,

Would go on to be. It was okay, then, to 

Kick me in the shin because I was an ugly shame,

Now I am something you ravaged, threw me

To the pale concrete, painted hop-scotch,

Half a dozen into my life, you hurt me, Son,

You tried to make me pay for something

I had just as quickly undone.

II

Hungry, prowling, cheetah forged from snow,

You cheat her, cheat me, cheat anything that moves,

And you were the only one

I admit to be a phase, growing like seams

Into the cheap cotton darkness, growth-spurt

Into the void you came. You never knew,

There was no suppose.

III

Like the Ash, you grew out of a hurricane, 

Prisoner of War who had ne'er seen wounds,

And you laughed, laughed, laughed off my love,

Like it was the punch-line to your overall merit,

Loved by many, and now, also, the Shadowy spinster, 

Black as smudge, muck into the pristine face of all might,

Masculinity, and fraud. You gave me my punch,

I give you your line: every woman adores a Fascist. 

IV

The first broken summer, Nazi poems

To mock your heritage, nationality,

V-for-W boy, you made the swap but left me here,

Like a pattern, like a switch, the first one knew, 

The second one died, and the third one had God's

Knowledge of all my amour, and now, you,

Light of my life, axe-murderer, toeing up my loins,

I wrote you as a Fascist Hitler as revenge for

Your not knowing, not loving me, not spitting 

Your mocking into my face, the only way I have loved.

If I could make one wish, contemplate one desire, 

Make a thousand: It'd be you, to love me, to love you, 

To love, you, all. You died too, after I did, 

A broken Summer, the songs burn my hands,

I shake and remember you, horseman. 

V

The real one, the Norse monster, the truth, the end, you.

I stretched out my genie meeting you, washing-line reside,

The migraine pricked like a bee-sting, and now, you.

Last Summer, the germanic wish of mine had me dizzy in grief,

Missing him, missing me, and again, doomed, you.

And now I go the Forbidden way, Forest pondering fires,

House wondering collapse, and I think it's you.

Like all good wishes, you have fulfilled in your satisfaction and now,

Like Godsend, like trivia, I am both prized and commended, me. You.

I haven't been scathed under your combusting loins just yet,

My wonderland, on it's axis, takes it's time getting there, to you,

Once more, into the centre, I pray for my return.

Reviews

[A. Amos]

Your a stylish writer, with classic way you represent your words and I always found a depth in your work...
Simply amazing my dear