*******
Yes, they raped her, so what?
My soul is a shattered galaxy, down there
Comets pop in then flee off
Non-stop, in one go, some rattled captives –
When she gets laid bare at gunpoint
Meadows she dons where blue flowers
Gaze at pink shoots in awe and astonishment,
Of course they get mown, don’t they,
So she makes do wearing skies, which is nice,
At least heavenly bodies don’t move, they look fast –
Who’s the lady in the snapshot, now,
Yes, the one all high cheekbones and heavy eyelids,
Were it not for the lipstick, she might well be
The end who’s getting some rest after tearing apart
Green hope, green jotters, her unpleasant chore,
Anyway, crimson and green don’t match well, do they,
I’d better reply thanks, but no thanks, or shield behind
My friends who pass, scatter and disperse:
Poems or clouds? I dunno, oh and please don’t forget:
Light has no grammar if a bare-legged suburban Artemis
Goes strolling awhile.
*******
They hissed she was still,
They hissed the North Star couldn’t sail the seas,
So God stepped in, tried to breath light,
But failed, sighed, then sighed again
As ravens fed up with black
Asked him to turn their feathers white –
Coffee time now, she’s dressed in black:
Insomnia is not a fashionista,
She keeps frowning at fads
When leaning on whiteness
All dressed in black–
See, the prayers she mutters
Do they look white or don’t they?
White, black, white, c’mon, who cares,
As long as she hurls at me prayers and crystals,
Those tears old fairies abduct,
So I’ll be longing for sleep
While thinking of chess, draughts,
Car parks and op art –
While feeling like a border town,
A crossroads perhaps
Where so many guys meet,
Chit-chat then die, and yes,
All doors bolted, dust gleaming
In the buttresses of dim light:
I was at home in the heart of the night,
A bunch of philosophical ‘neverminds’
Weren’t of much help, I’m afraid –
Nor are the spoils of mothers
So busy in a mist of ripped up entrails.
*******
What if a lover by chance
Wakes up in the dead of night
And reaches for a dead lover?
No kidding, evil loves colours,
He’s always asking for stronger shades:
The blue of bruises, the magenta of blood
Against the backdrop of cozy rooms
Where long-haired minstrels are playing
Transverse flutes and Celtic harps –
Only, Sundays can’t move, can’t dance,
Ever the wallflowers at the party they freeze,
But hey ho the music works wonders
At covering the screams
From the rebel son arguing with father –
On a hill? His hands nailed above his head?
Meanwhile, in a close-by studio,
Winter is doing some research on why women
Write about trench warfare and penny ante life,
Here are his outlandish conclusions:
Not anyone’s fault, that damned fool the sky
Limped, stumbled, looked askance at the colours –
And what did he choose?
Not underground graves,
A green shade of prey and desire,
No, he chose bread mould devours
A powder blue shade of course:
No wonder you don’t see them back –
Well, prophets most of the time.
Gabriella Garofalo
Bindweed Magazine 