Our Death
Night rain taps harshly against the house. Windows stream.
You smile with white teeth. Mine golden.
You’re like an angel. Green eyes. Pale cheeks. Ginger curls.
I paint your picture with a glance.
Your fingers pull away
each layer of my skin to know the ether of the bone. My hands
claw into your body to see bitter bright galaxies.
It’s still raining. Our death. Teeth glitter in the empty space.
To be Catholic
The white lines hadn’t stabilised
my drunkenness
more drunk and more acute. My heartbeat
speeding
out of the station
even though being or driving the tube
was utter fear. I
shouted at the Rocket bouncer who threw me out. Had she punched me? I
lost half a gram in the toilets.
Edges were so sharp they were bendable, flipping like ballerinas.
I was lying on my bed when sparks or ray guns or the confusion of being hit over the head in a cartoon darted around me. ‘It sounds like you were visited by aliens,’ my therapist said.
At Rocket, I told a man, ‘There’s nothing to steal in my hand,’ and held up my palm, stuck out my tongue, tried to take off my loafer to show him my sole.
‘It might be the hole in your heart.’
‘What the void?’ But my therapist said it was when I first time saw
a vulva
appearing like a question mark.
It questioned me!
I didn’t know how to smile
so I gripped the mattress and declared –
AND JESUS WAS GREEN
HELD ON THE CROSS
WITHOUT NAILS POSSIBLY ONLY I HAD MADE HIM
LOVE WAS ABOUT LOSS
GLUED HIS SKIN TO HIS BONE I HAD LOST
WHAT I LOVED WHAT WAS IT …
******
***Tom Bland is a writer and performer who lives in Hackney. He studied psychotherapy and dream analysis at SOPH/Middlesex University and edits the online magazine, Blue of Noon, at: http://blueofnoonpoetry.tumblr.com/ You can follow him on Twitter at: https://twitter.com/TomBland_Story ****
SICK LIT MAGAZINE 