…it clings…

denise_grant 005b

Ob[l]ituary 2013 –

“If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.” – Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

you would not be there to witness the gift bestowed upon me…yet… Albert’s Hall was thronging, hundreds of feet were pounding and my partner punctuated the air…yet…that moment in the spotlight was silent and empty like your grave…

and in that breath I swallowed your death…

…and you cling…

 …yet…there would be no warm embrace, no look of confusion, elation, swelling pride, bewildered furrows, eyebrows acting in amazement, the joy of light and tears in your eyes, on your cheek, no nervous energy coursing round your bodies, no celebratory gustatory delights, no fire to alight your memory
…and you cling…

without speech, in silent voice, telling me how proud you were, how happy you were, whilst the worry lay buried, you would not, could not, speak to me about the future or how you would not, could not, support me

…and you cling…

you would never know I was there, that for one small significant moment the ‘kid’ did good, beyond your wildest dreams, beyond her wildest dreams, yet she would continue to bear this lack, lick this porous festering wound for the rest of her life in utter silence…open wounds are susceptible to infection…in the mud decrepit dangers lurk…

…and you cling…there is no vocabulary to hush this conflict…detached poems speak voices of the dead

….and you cling…and her fury renders her speechless

…and it clings…a stain on the tip of her tongue…a ghost building, silhouettes of words [where] a certain set of gestures are housed

…and it stings

like any clandestine affair my glasses aren’t rose tinted, they are cracked, splintered, broken, smothered in the dirt of you, black excretions of filth exuding through the cracks, the grime of you inhabits […] the stench of you burns […]

in my nostrils, rolls around like grit in my eyes, feels like ash in my mouth; I roll your name around lovingly on my tongue, caressing you

..and it clings…

i roll you around in my mouth and you grate, setting my teeth on the edge. The grime of you inhabits every pore, dirty, filthy little memories secreted away, skin seething like ants

…and you cling…and it stings

no amount of washing can erase your sweet aroma, your putrid stench, your incessant demands, your impenetrability, your indifference, your pushiness, your excess, we sold our souls for you, I had holes in my soles for you, I have holes in my soul for you

...and it stings…and you cling

still you beckoned me with your availability, your parlor games, your desire to cater to every whim, the promise to fulfill any fantasy. Your body gorged my vision, replete with the extent of you, I could never see the end of you, never see beyond you, never get outside you, never get inside you…yet…always the feeling of you moving inside me

…and it stings…and you cling…and it rings

every day over and over, no touch can sooth or break this fever, no difference between aching and waking. What happens if your today keeps exploding? What went wrong with tomorrow? Where is your moment? Has it gone?

and you cling…and you cling…and you cling…and it rings…and it stings…and the past […] and so it begins

i have not uttered a word of this to anyone, not even to myself…

...and you cling, and the nightingale sings, and the melancholy rings, and the past […] and the future stings…and the falling begins…

i have lost my place, i’ll never be myself again

After her…After him…After the Great Wen*

© Denise Startin 2016

*The Great Wen is a pejorative term coined by William Cobbett in 1830 in reference to London.

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