I pressed myself into your cover,
and sewed to it a piece of now.
Falling like the leaves outside,
I fall to you, longing the rich purple
paint. Your signature of our time
you were mine, and mine alone.
There was no kiss hello, goodbye –
Your thumb is tucked under fingers
with each stroke the knuckles brush.
Will you keep me here and hang me
for all your canvases to be warned.
The lamb sits sizzling in its own fat,
pushing aromas around the room.
At the table are all of you,
mouths wet
with anticipation for the feast.
You do not look alike, and I even less so
with my nut roast, and steamed vegetables.
But yes, let’s dine with falsified interests and pretentious smiles,
ever competing – let’s enjoy a Sabbath under a religion
we do not worship nor believe in.
You always greet me with a kiss, (and that smile)
we talk away hours, over food – in bed.
I know each edge of your body just as well as your wife,
and it’s not like I never ask about her.
I wear Jean Paul Gautier, for men
so you can still smell of me
and I might pretend I smell of you on the weekend.
I wipe the lipstick off your cheek,
save birthday memoirs to your phone.
Pay for my own taxi home.
Tomorrow I’ll die,
And tomorrow the giants of Darkness will sew my shroud,
And they’ll get paid the price for their work in Cash.
Tomorrow I’ll die,
And tomorrow the second-hand of Big Ben will stop counting my wrinkles
aside from the myth of the homeland.
Tomorrow I’ll die,
And tomorrow the tribe will hit the intestate crematory introduced the wall.
Tomorrow I’ll die,
And tomorrow they won’t deploy the ash of my body on father’s fields
That was recommended by the love.
But I am sure tomorrow
My love also will come –
as well the comrades will come too
And they enclose my grave by pigment of memories
And they fill my mouth by the nectar of songs.
A dark heart has captured Ragga
where only petrol blood-pools span
the Euphrates river; lips were sealed
like stitches weaved from the soul,
truth would prevail beyond her death
as she celebrated Eid in her pyjamas;
No one loves us like the graveyards.
They do not watch the stars
Even though they stare deep into amber sky,
Bumping into each other
While walking the shopping aisles,
Not for any religious purpose
But for the drones and the missiles
Webbed in skylines of this Syrian circus,
No one loves us like the graveyards.
The overlords stand over a child in sand
in gowns of white they peer down,
small hands imprinted on a Turkish shore
where no tears fall from our overlords.
The roar of an ocean spews more children from its waves
what can we write in the sand;
An eye for an eye
….a tooth for a tooth
A cross for a crescent moon!
We with ketamine formed eyes sleep in our catatonic widescreen
liberal comfortabilities; Can we step outside
open up all of our selfish wounds where an ocean builds
…………………………………………a watery cemetery
layered with the bones of children in sand-tombs;
where no tears will fall from our overlords.
a compassionate person I of course
feel jolly sorry for your pain
and understand your journey was hard
through sleet and wire and driving rain
running from the black flag yes? bullets
bombs, chemical weapons (yawn) again
but dear child please understand
there is for us no fiscal gain
in housing you here , a minor still
you can only be a resource drain
do see it from our point of view
you could be trouble – is that plain?
reubenwoolley 