Image for the poem 'I go to seek a great perhaps'

'I go to seek a great perhaps'

Wielding needle as shovel
She wrote with nectarine fingers
Scarred by nicotine & crown thorn
Womb reliquary of bloodied warfare -
‘Am I digging hole or grave?’

Is writing act of loss?
Beyond seeking, leaking curved verbs
Onto windmill tips, flood until body flat lines -
Tending cemeteries where ephemeral died
Fragments still,
Nothing more than chapter obituaries:
It is not the death the parchment promised.

Once the skies were full of witches
Low flying flock of brooms sweeping
                            suburban chimneys
Whistling soot-voiced plumes of smoke
Flu(t)e flames in throat of God.
All is smoked.
They burn witches, don’t they?

Cinderella is a revolutionary leader  
Slipper’ing Disney misogynists
With red hot poker,
Dreadlocked (Rap)unzel
Sells modern fashion to fascists
& Beauty….
Well, Beauty still sleeps….waiting.

Cheek-by-jowl, murder most foul
Liberated from baby puke
And cold-war nuke talk,
Anne and Sylvia betrothed themselves to
Grooms of martinis in Boston bars.
An elderly lady recognised the literary pair
Leaving her thoughts on lip of porcelain cup.
Garish wallpaper dripped unwritten verse
Cash till pulsed as rhythm of typewriter birthing
A peculiar kind of love,
On their emptied two chairs
Have ghosts reclined in soiled shroud?
In dreams of others poems write themselves:

Madness has moments
And then vanishes
Before returning

In valley of maybes, maybe….    

May those who find exquisite beauty in suicide
Carry corpse past steaming factories
Thru’ gliding newspaper ribbons
                                 abseiling alleys
In reflection of derelict shop window.

World stops turning for Her Kind
As stiletto blades tear into turf –
As every keen scholar knows
The world is everything that is the case.

It is always
Her Kind.

# Title. Arguably last words of Rabelais.
Written by Trouble_Loves_Me
Author's Note
Kind of sad that her poetry is too often defined by her suicide. Says me, having scribbled of suicide/death! For all that it doesn't matter, I prefer Sexton to Plath. Just me.
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