Seven

1.
Some pretty little boy tried to get fresh
With me in a bathroom
Once (just once), I was sat, drifting softly, legs apart
On the edge of the bath
When he shut the sterile door,
Bolted, sealed us in —
I didn’t trust him, his bubblegum wad tongue,
Taste of pineapple
(probably Bacardi Breezer)
The sort of thing that’s sweet 

2.
At first, then sears my mouth
All half-numb and chemical, too acerbic to
Stomach, tongue swollen and lip-tied; I didn’t slap him
Around his acid-sharp face, didn’t give him
The static electricity glow
Of my hands on his skin,
Only punched him
Squarely in the gut, slammed
The door before his punch bowl insides gave way
All over the new-peeling paint. 

3.
Slumped deep in this sofa, we’ve been
Watching the lava lamp shiver
And swell for well over an hour as the party cools
Around us, kiss-blown lumps, all igneous,
Insignificant as planets; and it looks to me like you —
Swelling, yawning, wet red sweat beads
Of your hedonistic minimum effort ethic;
One who has never asked themselves
Whether God exists and, as such, has never been denigrated
Into triumph or zeal —

4.
And your lumpy majesty and
Grace, your curling tongue, your downy face,
All lackadaisical, makes me half crazy, burnt up
Like copper dust, never even second best
If only I’d had your idea first
Of a soul made of the dandruff flakes of
Cocoons you never wholly shed, a collage
Of half-hearts and purgings, wholly merged
Into a set of angel wings, all snowflake-blessed, sublime,
While I am evergreen, a mess. 

5.
From a suitable distance (as one views art), we are identical,
One eye green, one eye blue — but you,
You could never gaze upon
Some masterpiece that was not
Yours because that is
Not how you taught yourself to see; my heart, for instance —
All that glistens is mostly blood, and God
Knows that is the currency
Of the vast, dank kingdom
Between your skull and your ribcage. 

6.
I, however, concern myself more with
Hoarding than stealing, filling my organs as you do
With oxygen particles, dust and booze, cartons of
Juice and draughts carrying maladies
That I cluster, stuff myself on, give me
Gratification, give me death, my glorious
Store of breath a false troposphere, closing
All the windows in talcum powder and dew
Until I burst, polluted like fireworks,
Form a cesspool, wreck my party dress. 

7.
To be grazed is to be graced, you see,
For I am Lady Midas — not yet
Beyond the point of contagion, mistletoe-crowned,
Diamante gas mask worn this morning to glide above
Ground and weave through malls, mere mortals,
As gilded thread glides through tapestry, I do not trust
My head would pass through the eye of a needle
Though my soul like a left side lung has shrunk
To make space for the splendour
Of all the rest of me…

The End

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