deepundergroundpoetry.com
Scratch-Scrape Moment Love
She touched me in various places,
prayer hands cold against my skin,
vapour clinging, stone eyes watching
hesitant carnality given to broken fingernails
searching skin flooded with acid rain,
crowing cocks sniggering secrets
betrayed by weary tongues finding no refuge
in another cavernous face-hole.
She kissed me at her loneliest time,
eyes locked on moving shadows,
dancers in alleyways rehearsing steps
to the rhythm of smashing bottles,
cheap liquor companions punching holes
in each others fighting spirit,
reducing the moment to empty fragments
lost in the evening dust.
She led me to her place
dug into the dirt with doll hands,
wrapped my shame in damp towels
scattered on a bare memory floor,
the stink of inadequate flesh
taking me to white stained bed
were discoloured limbs thrashed
against the failure of manhood.
She placed me on a fresh nail
next to the feature window,
red roses and fractured suitors
tapping at the mirrored glass
in rhythm to their own laughter,
mementos of frigid fingertips
leaving gift-wrapped affections
hanging on yesterday’s meat hook.
She laid me in a field of stone
wrapped in obituaries of friends
who found solace in strange voices,
soft-core whispers, hard-core touches
lasting through a night ingrained
with body blows aimed low,
blood spittle wiped across still white cheeks
waiting for a change of light.
She took me down her favourite road
to a gash in some littered street,
stiletto heel gargoyles pitching pennies
against scratch-scrape doorways,
easy memories corroding under harsh light
left by generations of belly crawlers,
neo-roomantics following blueprints
rejected by their pox-scratching forefathers.
She lost me in my moment of love,
kneeling against her swollen hip
with my hands drawing pictures in the air,
ethos-based still-lifes capturing nothing
of her abandoned beauty,
impotent pseudo-artist screaming for colour
in a place where picture-perfection
means less than the dirt it revels in.
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Published 17th Jan 2010
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