Questions of a Marriage
Yesterday, your wife, unhappily but
Contently married, is found dead,
Hanging.
Were you that bad?
Or had there been another life,
Stolen from you?
Do you want to find out, or stay put,
Contently unhappy?
Was she too; or had she found it?
What was she doing? Brown to you.
Were they or was they to her?
Did you like her well? Do you like her?
Did you know her well, or do you?
Hate… Dare you say it? Or
Dare you stare?
Was she right, in the end? Was you
Right to begin?
Or did you already know?
To stay still, then you already did.
To ask, and you will never. So,
Take a second; the answer
Is always the same.
Scratching an Itch
It's a taste, it's a touch, it's a smell
In the mouth.
The smell of old spice, your mosaic
Of grath.
A musk of a husband, the yeast of
his bed.
Crumbles of skin from scratchings
Of head.
Ivory nails and yellowing teeth,
He scratches and scratches the surface
Beneath.
Mountains of skin pile bodies high,
The ivory curtain grows thicker and wide.
Blood downs the earth, soaked soaker in
Iron,
And beneath Mother her hateful lion,
Tame as a hyena, domicile as the Sweeney,
The musk surround goes deeper beneath
Thee.
Then the ivory curtain crumbles like paper,
Pastry and skin is the trade of the Draper.
The wall can be plastered, but plaster
Is hollow.
The lion beneath crawls out of the
Burrow.
Tchaikovsky's Vendetta
Oh! Oh! Oh!...
What was it? It is gone.
A lunar eclipse endears in the sky,
The endearing traveller greets its
Wrinkles with a smile.
But in those wrinkles wrinkle my eye,
And so the music box is wound and
Wound and wound, again and again.
To his hand-me-down Marsh.The music is Tchaikovsky's vendetta"Remember my friends, beauty is chaos,
Chaos from beauty, but in the end,
It is still a Marsh".
What did he mean? It was taken from
The Vendetta never written-
Tchaikovsky's paux fas and ode
To damnation.
By now the flutes have ceased, and
I am guided by the timpani's steady
Rhythm hitting like a bobcat's tail.
Tchaikovsky's conclusion confuses the
astute of society's chosen.
Who would of thought that his Arc
de Triumph was what,
a coda?