Haemorrhaging & Sophia
by Iain Britton
[ poetry - july 05 ]
Haemorrhaging
Yesterday’s solar haemorrhage
has bloodied my hands
and I can’t wash it off.
Venus shines from her socket
as if squeezed like a boil
from the sea.
It’s the perfect morning
for haphazardly
conquering the space
around the crammed labyrinth
of my neighbours - watch
how they go
how they live between
food intakes or strive
to jump into the security
of their boxes
the ultimate closure
to fistfuls of living.
I swing from poles of sunlight
then drop amongst them
a little known messiah
performing my grubby little tricks
like breathing more smoke
than I should
fouling washing lines
in a flatulent swoop or
cannibalising
the good words of others
for self-satisfaction.
I’m little more than
dried blood turned to red ash
turned to
phoenixing myself
at the first smear of fog or
fingerlick of rain. I subscribe
to the idea of one-night stands
of picking and choosing
who I live with
go with
on long veiny walks.
My heart bleeds
hieroglyphics
across the front of my shirt
and no matter how I try
I can’t wash them off.
In the bright sunshine
the obligatory clean up
of torn scars begins.
Sophia
I live in a house
of pictures.
A woman smokes -
she is wrinkled
chiseled darkly
and reeks of history.
I stand on grass
in the rain.
She watches from behind
the lighted finger of a hand.
She’s deep in the gold prism
of her frame. We
are both guilty of
committing crimes in the dark.
I walk through rooms
through pictures
walls knock and
doors slam. Whose
focus will last
the longest
who will have the privilege
of dragging in the moon
and lying it flat
on the table.
