Our Death/ To be Catholic – by TOM BLAND

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 …

******

unnamed

***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  ****

 

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