Roz Kaveney (rozk) wrote,
Roz Kaveney
rozk

Another bloody poem

This one will be the epilogue to the entire sequence, and is possibly the only poem to put Keats and that scene from Alien. It also contains an incredibly obvious play on words that I cannot quite believe I have not come across elsewhere.

Three years
Spent
on love
Sqaundered.
I seemed so old then,
was now so young.
I had the time to waste
On sighs.
And wrote little
Let lust and grief
sit
until now.

Grapes
Their thick skins rasped
by sun and wasp and rot
torn from vine
trodden sieved pulp
squeezed
fluid left in darkness
to fester.
After years, poured
mellow sharp tongue kiss
colour of the membrane of the waspwing,
scent of sun.
Rot reserved
careful
sprayed on other grapeskin.

One way of seeing.
Another, viruses control our brain
a little, make us gasp mist
into other faces
into eyes and mouths
into other brains.
Words of love
birth love in other brains.
The noble rot
adds its putrescent bite
to grapeskin.
Muses' songs
infect us
make us muse-maddened
muse-gasping
their music
sickness
to pass on.

In a dark room
burning and chaste
yards from the carnival
perpetual
boozy bawdy song
of whores and pimps
the steep stairs he could hear
among his coughs.
He wished that he had had her when he could
Verse no consolation
Name written
on water.
His friend's gravestone
heckling his
despair with consolation.
Among the poets?
Better living flesh
blood in his veins
not on his handkerchief
knowing it death
knowing the sicknesses
he caught
and coughed to others.

We feel the bite
Of poetry, and love
but do not feel
egg-sting in flesh.
eat breakfast cereal
drink tea
believe ourselves in health.
It sits
in darkness
festers grows
then tears into the light
bursting our chest
and runs into the dark
waits other prey.

What will remain of us is love?
No, what will remain of us and love
Is words.
These words
to rasp and rot
Seed poison blessing kiss.

And when this is done, and the second long autobiographical poem, I shall get back to the novel and the book on fantasy film. And not write the string of twenty or so poems about my dead people, because that would mean months of misery.
Tags: poetry ashleigh desire keats alien
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