Fox Fur

I do not know what to make of you and your broken, shaking hands. Your eyes make me cry. Your eyes make me alien. My tea needs sugar Mother. I jump in to cold, blue water, black beetles swim around and a shark’s fin hangs above my head in the farm. I wonder what secrets the fox fur stole used to know. It terrified me so. It used to hang in my wardrobe covered in white glossy paint where I used to lay down and push my bare feet down against the door to the floor, making it scream. The fox hanged itself along with a few of her other old, contaminated clothes probably from other husbands and sometimes, it would lean out and touch me. It smelt of old things, dead creepy things. Mother used to wear the animal a lot when she was younger; it had small, glass eyes that tinkered when your nail touched them and a tiny hinge on its mouth so that you could make it talk, and even though I’ve tried many a time, it never speaks. I now wear a black fox fur stole in the winter.

Topaz

Twenty years. Ten years of dismembered memories.
I wonder who this woman is, this mask of wood and golden nails. One day I’ll remove this mask and find the wood decomposed, the nails rusted.

Perfection is obsolete. Your mask hides reality, reality that I will never know. I do not know who you are, who you were, who we are. I cannot find the words to write about you.

You are ambiguous, an amphibian, an unpolished topaz. I am pulverised by this latest thing.

A work in progress...

I am a wall of eyes.
Asleep on a mattress of
horse hair and needles,
you prod and poke your
penis nose.

Jealousy is liquid.
A dead ancient portrait of
the stone and the tree.
Tonight is enough,
curtains close.

Chapter 3

Are Fairy Tales fantastically moralistic, promising an unconventional, potentially inappropriate and fantastic illusory lifestyle?

MANNEQUIN

The empty silence is biting my lip.
Down hard I bit
right below at the tip

Black and grey pigeons and puppies might scream
as they talk of
my mannequin alien being.

The blackened window has broken my head.
Shards in the lead
as I crawl from this bed.

For Sasha

Exit.
The rain will stop falling,
the bitter descend of cold
polluted water will dry,
become steam...
- and close the lid on the kettle.

Twinkle.
Like you forever do,
Let the electricity run and
switch the light on.
For it is you,
who we all listen to.

Smile.
Monique Le Soleil will
forecast sunshine soon.
You may wonder,
if it is still winter,
but spring is here.

Enter.

A Silhouette for Anna

You spin on that
Victorian street,
a thaumatrope. Yet, here
there are no birds in cages.
The air is barren.

The two people forge.
But spin and laugh!
Obtuse. Look, for the mirror
produces the truth,
your necklace reversed.

I will paint you
a black silhouette of sorrow, Anna.
Seeing the pain in the statue
breaks the crystal of my eye
but the other stays open.
Why do you still not cry?