16th of December
I thought I'd love you
but the last lick of fire
died out
Life crowded me out
On the screen, we age
Our edges blur
The articulate speech of lust
Is now but a quiet slur
At the weekend I am a crowd mistress
Surrounded by
overgrown babies who,
In their disquiet,
want to latch onto my tit
Mouths smeared in transference lipstick
I'm just a shapeless plaything
they use
on their sojourn to Hades
to tune up their emotional strings
I charm I laugh
But at the end of the day
The verdict is:
Not enough
Says so the 50-year-old girl
in a pink hoodie and plats
They're listening
I try not to breathe,
And the truth is a stillborn
but the queen on the wicker throne
Can't say so
Beware
says the man who plays hide-and-seek
He hides - but you'll never get to find him
You won't drown but neither will you swim
A baby grows inside you
She is the ghost of Christmas future
Throwing a punch and a kick
Weaving invisible threads into a mind
Immortality's magic trick
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