Wednesday, 1 December 2010

SJ Fowler

{I am a dancing Cathar, married twice, looming incest}

he enters a double door that carries the face of a bookcase
                   & descends into that rare subbasement
                               to carry on with those who struggle in her name, Jus Primae Noctis!
                       I help them to place a bag under the Museum.
                                                 & the ghosts are welcome to me.
                                                 they are dead for a reason & jealous sweep
                                        I will return the place again to Montague’s fields
                         & raise the Uncle’d spectre that they have forgotten. Complaint
               I do not think they will speak Dutch, or Latin.
                           I think they will just come for everyone I have known.
                  so the incentive grows. A crutch
                           if it cannot roam it cannot be. It must return then,
                                                   to brack &  hood & cea
             it will not be the good half of me that’ll stick to their fingers when it goes
       not the lowerhalf
                            I will not be in sight when the tomb rises in fire.
                                    no notice will be given. That day is this day.
                       the colossal rat
               clearly beneath the white binds it is beginning to cry
          the words beneath the cloth are inquisitive
                                                  there are no apologies or exclamations.
                  it bites down trying to predict the blows.
  I                                       always chewing, trying to sever the gag.
                                                      it cannot save itself now.
                                                            more hitting, more irregular blows,
                                  always with the closed hand.
                               He does not put everything in.

{Nafkhae is the name of that particular form of air or vapour which the angel gabriel is said to have blown or caused to pass from his coat sleeve into the windpipe of Mary for the purpose of impregnation}

during the night, I need to be calmed.
She has bad news. Porphyria is dead.
The shape so different from the other girls.

The last time she saw me she was drunk and singing,
her bra sweated through, her arms lacerated, refusing to heal.

The bottle in her hand broken, and her still drinking from it,
wincing at the taste, mocking me, singing so loudly,
deafening the others and she liked me, loved me,

slept with me because I laughed over her falls,
laughed as she sung white power anthems
outside of the off-licences by night and pharmacies by day.

Shouting at the top of her lungs ‘six million lies’,
getting the elderly at bus stops to join in,
wiping billiard balls over my lips,

still warm like platypus eggs from where they had just recently rested.
Porphyriagena is dead. She lies dead.
I must go, lest they suspect it was me.

Clearly she died of cullagium, of poisoning,
but how terribly I would be beaten before they realised this
and confirmed it so.

She wasn’t even that old, she was twenty years old.

Her death cannot be in anyway related to me.
Just a coincidence. None the less…
I leave her undisturbed behind me and do not close the door in my wake.
I need a rest, I seek a massage.

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