Painting walls
I remember painting the walls yellow,woodwork white, I stood on a ladder,
which wobbled precariously as I rollered
paint onto a ceiling, drops of paint
collecting and running like a river down
my arms. It was hot, sweat ran
an oversized man's shirt and just underwear,
I had given up on shoes long since.
You stirred inside of me, made me feel hungry,
I took bites from the baguette, too lazy
to break, watching crumbs fall, a stall
in my creation, paint fumes making me faint
as I stood by the window, watching summer
on the lawn, awaiting my autumn baby.
I couldn't sleep, yet sleepy and a gnawing,
I could feel you crawling, all sinews and flesh,
my flesh, growing, demanding nutrients,
then that pall of sickness, I felt unsteady,
on the ladder I stood three rungs high,
hanging from the sky, dreams caught in
soft furnishing, behind me the sun
burnished, leading into a copper early evening,
I tasted the metallic feel of you,
wiped a hand across my forehead and
wondered about second coats and winter boots.
It didn't rain for months and months,
I felt the bump inside me slowly grow;
an Indian summer, I got the invitation,
falling, falling, I fell into you, watched the
milky depths of your eyes turning blue,
the glue from the frieze in the room long unstuck,
just as I would be forever stuck on you.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2013-07-24 at 20:17
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Lawrence Beck |
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