4am draws a bath surrounding island limbs, nail polish the shape of foreign countries in chipped enamel, signalling semaphore loneliness across lachrymose trenches – or shipping channels, broadcasting the old vibrations of some thread-bare intimacy
be my be my baby
a star of federation stapled brutally to a new white flag nation, stitched with silk cotton grief and the forgotten belief that e equals somethingsomething constant at least I can count on that
can I count on that at least?
don’t follow me with the pneumatic footsteps of a beast laying siege to a voiceless valley
I will know what it is to howl.
’tis the easiest pregnancy to give life to misshapen metaphors, strange abortive progeny with no structural integrity, the tower will fall and down will come
stay with me baby
cradle and all.
so how does one amend when the bad pick up fault lines split our ends into fractured perceptions of somethingsomething constant some thing I don’t know.
I swear I wrote some shit hot rhyme at some point.
But what price fire.
© Georgina Barley 2017