Darkhorses

I.

I want to sleep by your calm shape

I want to lay between the angel crow

of your face,

slipped between the dove white skin

and fleshy velvet gates; the

half moon,

the darksky,

the streak of dust: nebulous motion,

starry one.

 

Darkhorses of belonging ride my fate,

the breaking storm of green eyes –

colours I’ve never seen before – haunts me,

my mind as blank as the Sunday morning:

clipped birds fly the ladder of clouds –

your face in the heavens,

your hand at my breast

listening to the fragile hurt sound,

the beat.

 

II.

Shapechanger.

My eyes have fled from the

whitest light

to the mahogany halls of childhood

polished wood skidding with bare knees,

Closing all these doors;

the light blowing shut,

the night descends a steel shutter before

the confused dusk; their empty socket

eyes.

 

Going to bed with weevil biscuits;

a slave ship sailing in the boy’s mind

a blade:

seeing eyes reflected and

run through the bedsheets with flashlight;

tinbells clinging with no rhythm,

atonal theme the sound of birth and women

spat into the vacuum by his

Ship’s Captain.

–David Susswein

David is a writer that lives at the bottom of England, next to the sea. There in the quietude he plans world literary domination or at least to write passionately and truly. That is all he can do. He’s contactable on Facebook or Twitter.

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