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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 20:34:09 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 27692
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Have You Met My Memory
[time] => 2003-11-22 22:02:26
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Don’t you have time to speak? We used to sit and talk, I’ve watched you weep for a character in a movie, Yet you didn’t even blush when you told me Not to seek your moistened cheek again; But I have not come seeking, Only found by nightly chance— Stumbled, and so was hung In this wound of nocturnal circumstance; I am going this way...”How are you?” I’m always ‘fine’ or ‘great,’ My eyes are always blue… They used to turn to you, Don’t you remember how, on the still crest of silence, You’d meet them with a brush of blushing kindness That may have truly been, as it had always seemed And felt to me—too polite to, in the silence, be For ‘more than friends’ Or ‘lovers yet to be.’ But now you glide right past me through the night So firm, too strong even to act polite Or let your failing sight bend low to see: Stale memories haunt these dark filmy seas, Writhing waters splash and thunder And a thousand sundered waves Roil over my divided consciousness— Bumping, scraping, nudging each other along To the wounded shores of my mind, Reverberating with the cyclic moanings Torn from throats born in sick hunger And enflamed with desperation. And time will stretch the silence… Give me room to agonize, then, Like a shadow seeing his sun rise Speed on with forgotten places and the faces I held dear, One the most—too much, it seems, I held it dear—I held a wisp of sunshine in my palm That fled with warm illusions for the day. But now you blow right by And sting fresh gashes On my raw and burning cheeks; Those soft eyelashes that once batted Your grace and tender touches Down toward my aching face Are now cold edges that slice at my inner skin, Such thin wet paper, being torn to shreds— Thin wet paper—torn to shreds in silence… Shriveled, thin dried skin against the world, And at a touch I bleed, Now at your touch, I bleed— At your soft touch… I bleed. These hands must shake that pass you now, For I am just a creature who is weaker than his hunger; If thirsting lips could move, I’d crack and bleed my answer for you, girl. All the same, I cannot hate, But nimbly turn this empty weight Over and over again in blistering confusion, And seek my comfort in the thought Of pain as an emotion—somehow, noble, Deep and noiseless Like those breathless screams At dream-feigned phantoms Hovering around an empty bed… But the illusion fades as it is fed And so do we, Although we may not dare remember All the vision may have said. A starving heart will suck fresh venom from cold wounds To purge his hollow belly With some lusty dark emotion, And digest it to the whine of vertigo… But I will taste no more; Shattered, I will not cry or shriek infected fears Or blink, betrayed by unborn tears—just so, I would not bruise your tender ears, But hold my stride as my last breath And act as if we had not shared some secret space, As if I had not passed you in this place— That your smile was but a dream, And I awake As the night breathes a moist wind Upon my waiting face. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 160 [topic] => 52 [informant] => tjraff01 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => goodbyepoetry )
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