Oh, if not by the surrender of vespertine creatures
Those that bravely skulk behind your heroics,
I would have crawled into your mind and patterned for myself
An animal of scales in your loving sight.

Here are your skinny appendages, and me
As mansion ivy as I slide about the boughs of your human tree.
You never read about the drowned in books
Nor how they leave their irises exposed
To our grand dying world.
How they are like us when
You plunge white-hot into my being
How when I breathe in your world
My lungs are like theirs, shallow and drawn apart like
An Impressionists’ carnival of mayhem.

Am I but marble baths and cigarettes to you?
A scatter of tea saucers, a toybox of urban delights.
Not of idle broomsticks and an ancestral outrage
Black umbrellas by polished gravestones
Your scar tasting like uninteresting prosthetic flesh
On the hollow of my tongue
As I give an indisposed shudder by you.

And when you shall die, by the ankles of my founder’s pets
I shall take you and cut you out into little diaries
That all the world will be in love with the meanings a scar brings
And pay no heed to the fatuous muggle they called The Bard.

We fuck only on cold evenings
And afternoons that look shady to the proud noses of clocks.
The third time, it was overlooking the slither of an unwanted lake
With the stench of that Weasly girl buried under your guilty fingernails
And under the sludge of the watching waters. You left your glasses behind.

And once upon a furtive thirtieth, whilst we were tucked away
Behind the sockets of a warring afterlife
With the music of muskets sounding in our chests
(Did you know what they were fighting for, really?)
You were so sleepy, so prettily unheard,
I didn't know that The Boy Who Lived had outlived his name.

You could pretend that life was a flash of wand light
Full of stormy ships and the sullied palms under your feet,
Ageing chins spreading for a grimace at magical irony,
Not a boy with his father's worship emblazoned on his limbs
And a dementor's pledge inside his elbow, his throat
Engulfed with the manner of your thrusting cock.

The god of fortunes branded his fools wisely
You were the last in line, an assortment of spluttering noises
And bursting hearts. The Granger girl, she walked not unknowingly,
Her mind contorted with the bewildering nature of opera. This opera.

So for three moments I am a party of counterfeit knives
Pressing into your shoulders, long-malformed by the blessings of mortal cowards
Like I. I am the kingship of silver fowls, where I lay before you
A drain of stars for which to soak your dented crowns in.
And then we will undress ourselves in a roguish Eden
Pumping sweet soil, like wishful foals for the benefit of our insolent pride.



My mother, she cried for you too.



fin