‘Hunger!’ he shouts,
Screams about it.
That burning love,
What could he mean?
An infection, perhaps,
Of the severely uncool
Rock and roll kind?
Or drugs?
Alcohol?
Of course, it must be metaphorical,
I say,
Love is not a literal being.
It embodies itself, through symbolism
Like in ‘Free’.
Woah,
Where’s your passion?
People want to believe in it,
So they invent it.
Surely?
She shouts from downstairs
But not to me.
No.
It’s a delivery for a Mr. I’m Married To You.
He sends a reply back;
First class, of course.
She opens it,
Reads it,
Cries.
Pours out her soul to the air around her
Until it turns blue.
Crude.
Rude.
He laughs at her desperation,
Her misery.
Oh, how he loves the speedy service of words.
Vicious words.
She’s at his feet again
Like he is the Almighty
Come down to Earth
To wreak havoc and pain.
Old Testament.
The Red mail box outside
The house is full again.
Time for Mr. Postman to deliver more abuse.
Stuck in traffic
traffic of the mind
thoughts can’t move
progress
stuck in time
a dull ache hinders progress
now it’s sharp
painfully there
i’m aware
sorely
of its presence
again it’s gone
like it was never there
a pretender
now i look outside the window
and breath in
stale yet fresh air
like life
vitality
in
and
out
in
and
out
now i can think
again.
Unintentionally, my wild eyes rove
Over your deliberate form.
The brass forest of blue yonder
Sinks into smoke shadows
As you utter
My name.
You insist now that the orb of moonlight
Cast upon that pure savage shore
On that wondrous and fateful night
Is lamentably there
To protect me
From you.
I cannot accept: what ruinous thoughts
Pass athwart the air between us.
How could you remarkable beaut
Possess such qualities
And claim to be
Marble?
Though the echo of the pain as your lips break
My humanity still lingers on,
I stalk your magnificence through
The forest at dawn to
The wasteland we
Call home.
A.L. Wilson 