Purple on silver, sweat and sick

I


Eyes shine like dustbin lids as we make our way to school,
as we resign ourselves to this thread of sugar-coated lecturing for one more day.
Dancing across stone statues of flat plains
and never letting our gaze stray across one another for too long.
Those brick walls, those hedges of dust and dirt,
swallowed us whole as we leapt from violins to scraping chairs.
Sound is nevertheless beautiful. All is well that ends well.


Hold hands as we skip, dodging cracks and finding sharks:
hold hands as we hold back the firing squad.
Protest and let the passion go go go.
The feast in your eyes is no longer there, fighting for room
and fighting for nerves. Are you truly happy now?
Your face is no more alive than it was all those years ago.
Duvets support, they were our first romances.
Cheeks smudged with shit and sweat, crawling like humans through the mud.
The blood.
Twisitng internal blood, honey.


You stand there and we leave together into this city, this day,
burrowing under slab after slab after slab.
Could it be that we can't have this anymore?
Writing my letters backwards is easier than seeing straight.
We delve through forests of dildos and cabarets,
dancing like animals, stuffing our faces with every liquor and dripping candy.
You glow like a rave of colours, of hooked teenagers who grope
and go further than our hearts and our heads and pretentious accents can let us.
Digging through the garbage, you will find a lover, fellow cast-off;
a star who's limits are scattered through sly London.


We are skipping to a tune nobody else has ever heard.
Our hair grows far past our age.
The school gates are locked; it is Saturday.




II


We tremble as the birds fly overhead but we seek comfort in their feathers.
It's midnight here, and our souls are bright.
Gold pours on valentine-red skin and flocks of bloated girls.
Smoke filters through the heather that lines this concrete path,
this man-made maze of silent boys and lonely girls.
Nobody speaks the truth as it scrapes on bleach-white bones and soft milk skin,
burnt hair that fills the room with sweet, sweet perfume.


Wells filled with singing scales and tipping jewels -
swallow them, they rattle down your ribcage, hitting every note and key.
Behind embroided fans (thin thin bony fingers) and chinese screens (skin and skin and skin)
we wrote about love, created it, but we never touched.
Celebrity bodies crash and curve, losing muscle and wasting fat;
soon they are nothing but crackling worms.
Let us be the wrens and the robins and the bluebirds who will tear them apart.
It is all a myth, they can't live in halves, but they are never full -
denying truth and Beauty and just wanting to wrap themselves in greasy-paged tabloids.


Escape by the window, by the water, by the waves, crawl out the cave
to find out if you like men or women (don't stay in between
or the whores and bitches will get you). Bigots.
Or are they bigger than me? Superior?
I am the inferior little pagan girl,
the creation of too much eyeshadow and hectic nights,
of shiny-eyed brothers.


I end all the fun.
I end it all in shadows and dark dark dark corners.
I will end all the fun.