You’re an air of musk and liver halves ,
a stench of decompose,
mould stained etchings on epitaphs,
just thorns, with no rose.
Autumn crisp and winds snappy bite,
crows gawk and stare,
grass blades, stones and sunken sites,
they make you self aware.
Feet that echo from earth to ears,
I feel swollen with heat and regret,
flame of guilt and acid tears,
this grief just will not let.
Gnashed cheek sidewall,
chewed lip flesh sprawl,
bloodied nose freefall,
oh grief, I’m in your thrawl.
you’re an echo of abandonment,
Just when I think I have found my nest,
you’re the wind that reminds me,
nothing is permanent,
what appears full bodied and pertinent,
is just effervescent.
Ahh there goes the nest,
there goes my residence,
you take everything,
I’m allowed to grieve however I like.
I, for example grieve the living all the time.
I grieved my father before he died,
I grieved with anger,
until he died,
then I grieved with silence,
then I grieved with entitlement,
then I grieved with poetry,
I grieve whichever way I like.
Even a kilo of fat I gain makes me grieve,
or a white hair I lose.
I grieved one day,
whilst he was still alive,
that he wouldn’t leave me grief in his will,
never in the world did I know he owned so much grief,
and whilst my family gets a proportion,
I’ve inherited most of it,
the mad of it,
the stricken of it.
I grieve unborn children that lay in my loins,
I grieve fertile wombs laid to rest,
worse, the ones that give up and grieve alone.
I grieve for a plant I didn’t tend to,
a palm I could not fill with a expiation of my sin.
Grief, has always been in my belly,
it took death to keep it on my tongue.
You’re the pair of jeans,
with a hole through my knees,
no matter what’s lurking beneath.
You’re the gnash of my teeth,
the weight in my feet,
the scar tissue,
dragging and chewable,
inflamed and raw cheek.
What ever do you seek,
preying on the weak,
of people already apart,
left humbled, rubbled and meek
Here, have me already,
I know you’re a woman,
I don’t need to lift your veil,
I know, in all that darkness,
with an air of evil surrounding you,
I’ll be bitten,
scratched and smitten,
in masochist abuse,
wet with prose and reconciliation.
Bring a man to his knees why don’t you,
until his savage is all timid,
and his temperament livid,
and he can’t fight you with his vulnerability,
or console you with bloodied fists.
One way or the other,
you’re going to smother,
with your blatant honesty,
try as I may,
to perch, or even impale,
my grief, is better suited to flight.
It’s meant to be a release,
but it singes either way.
by the breath of the entertainer.
He assumes he fashioned you this grief,
and gives no credit to the flute maker,
who crafted the scale and haunt,
out of nothing more than bamboo and a file,
and assumption of engulfing the mourner with embrace.
Little do both care,
the ney can only cry so much,
before it’s reed is discarded,
and it’s body turned to mulch.