Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Female, Written

I try to write
But perhaps I have perfected the art
Of losing the plot
Far too often

Of using the knife
With the hilt inwards.
‘Ladylike’ or just squeamish
An indulgent paradox
Shifts through my fingers
They look like insects
Yet the wrists rotten.

I take the first hand
In the other
And curl the digits to fists
Slowly knotting the flesh
Is this expression?
If I hold it above my chest
Does it mean something?
When I push it against my temple
It fits like a glove

Ah, you lover
The clichés run
And these hands uncover
They scrabble with dust
They want to hold
But they only touch.

Because she is sensation to one
‘A hand’ to the other
She can never be whole
But is like a parade
Taken for entertainment
Tired-out for the day.

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