She and He

I don't really know what this is.

She comes for you with gnashing teeth and the flesh of the others on her claws. She comes for you with wailing and with lamentation, she comes for you with the force of a hundred thousand, she comes and she shakes the earth and hearth beneath your feet. She comes and shatters all bonds. She comes to herald the god who never was, who breeds the weak and eats the strong. She comes and there's a darkness, a smothering, a shattering, a pestilence. She comes and brings frenzy and famine, rape and ruin, wrath and wrack and war. She comes and she clenches her fist around your beating heart and licks the lifeblood from your face. She comes and nothing will bar her way.

He comes for you with hands outstretched and the scent of lilacs on his tongue. He comes for you with praise and with glory, he comes for you with the desire of a thousand sighing courtesans, he comes and he opens all doors and hearts with his gaze. He comes and he binds you in threads of shimmering steel. He comes to herald the goddess who we all see, who smites the godless and exalts the holy. He comes and he brings peace and prosperity, happiness and holiness, smiles and sun and celebration. He comes and he wraps his hands around your body and holds you close. He comes, and nothing will keep you from him.

A little sickness.

I've had a crippling sickness for almost a month now and the boyfriend is absent tonight for an extended time. Hello, teenage angst. Can't get away with it for much longer.


A little sickness here and there,
Is really rather nice.
An illness is beyond compare,
A fever thrilling, unaware
It floods and overcomes.

But when the illness lingers,
In your froth and in your fingers,
In your breath and in your bone,
And in the malignant monotone,
Of weakness and of lacklustre poise,
Your guts will rumble, make a noise,
Your neck will pulse, your throat will tear,
And you're no longer unaware.

A lot of sickness, near and far,
Is really rather shit,
A plague, a rot, a falling star,
A suffering that's beyond par,
And here's the fuck of it.

You're all alone, all in a flash,
Your frail flesh crumbling to ash,
Your hope gives way, your flesh ignites,
Your blood and brain no longer fight,
Abandoned and ignored in grief,
The sickness is beyond belief,
And nothing makes it go away,
So close your eyes, and weep, and pray.

He will return, and morbid thoughts take wing,
And banish the shade of suffering,
He'll touch your back, he'll soothe your fears,
For your sorrow he'll be all ears,
But till then, the light off silver screens -
Your words are not quite as they seem.
And though you quail, and weep and wail,
You shall yet live to tell the tale.

Turning

Fuck, I need a drink.
Greasy haired and sick of all.
Catch this, and you fall.

The Witching Hour

It's that hour between twelve and one.
You're splayed across the scene,
Shapes across tiles,
Crooked, late smiles.
Something's wrong with your hair,
And there's blue in your stare,
And everything is strange and twisty-wrong,
Like the words to some half-forgotten song,
That they sing over the graves of suicides,
And there's blue in your eyes.
Spilling over, round and round,
Your body twisted through the air,
Razor thin,
It draws you in,
A stranger looks back from the mirror and you're caught by him,
But he can't see your feet and you try and keep them
from him, he can't see them yet,
this isn't your time, your place, your hour,
it belongs to him.
And there's blue in your stare,
and there's magic in the air,
And everything is tangled.
Stretched taut-assured
and twisty as the tunnels that ants dig beneath your feet
that he cannot see.
And you don't even recognise yourself.
What sex are you?
Why are your eyes so sunken, your flesh so shrunken?
Why do you grin and blink out of sync?
And why is the blue seeping over your face?
That's entirely out of place.
But he'll come out in the wash.
And swirl down the drain.
But you're not quite the same.

Double over and you'll be fine.

Curtains

The curtain's about to go up.
Or rather, I'm about to go under the curtain.
Under the knife, cut into slices and diluted under lights.
Things are such a sight, and I'm not sure if I can hang on.
Because everything is ruined if you over-think it.
And you can a be one-dimensional bastard on stage,
With your red tie, and sweet hat, and tidy lies,
But if you try and keep that out of your life,
Things go under the knife.
Can you really go against your nature?
Nothing certainer, nothing stranger.
And here's the rub -
You want what you can't have,
Fingers, where there's a nub,
Another when one is in your bed,
And all the extras live inside your head,
And can't go on the stage because they didn't get the lead,
Adulterers, take heed.
A dash of honesty early will save shattering later,
But you can't give it up,
You're weak.

The curtain's about to go up.