Porphyria’s Lover, A Version

Poetry

God itches the dry sky above dusty city coals
Old Frost melted across heated window panes
And below the flaking skin of heaven falling
Expires in slush gutters corrupted, grey
Such that in my waiting room I dream of green

Christmas trees. Where stumbles in my lover,
Wasting pines like snowflakes cloying to his boots,
Thrusting and spinning until we bucket the wood
And he tangles with mangled lights singing holly,
Breathing ivy, blinking red through glasses

Of strong Snowballs. Withdrawing to me,
Dims the ceiling, thuds boots to the floor,
Shuts the lounge door as he unzips his hoodie
And instinctively shakes, destroying so many
Water droplet worlds. At last he collapses

Out of sight on the sofa, murmuring cold and distant
Depots; a low rumble like a snore mighty enough
For gloves to slip over the side whilst his boots
Remain marooned with socks.

And though mulled wine bides its time, glass shining
Nocular on his frosted eyes, burning with absent candle flames,
I watch the clock cry each minute.
Lover, I coo. Lover…

All out the blue his lips kist wet and my tongue delving for his words,
The fingers enlivening, the ruddy rouge puddling his cheeks.
He’d choke if he were only a little sleepier, but the eyes
Peek out, triste in adoration.

His dopily pretty face yawning under those eyes
He yawned when I asked him what we are, muddled a
Youthful excuse, a need for prospect, yet still he mopes
Back to me on the old evenings, to swelter in the embers of my heart.

The dawdling boy.

I realise then that he is too young to be eaten by love,
To recognise the pain of a fire left to its spluttering death,
Replaced by floating orange cloth, and turned off.
He will blunder out of love. He’ll let it slip away.

And all at once my little flames
Flutter, and sparks like pangs, my fingers
Stop his throat whilst teeth like fangs tear out
The tongue and as he dies my hair dabs the little

Tears. Still there, he lies in his treasured sleep.
His bloody tongue is a heap with gloves on the floor.
The tree sparkles. A sprig of mistletoe falls, but
He can’t see, now. My fingers keep his eye-buds

Closed amidst their dark dead petals. Preserved in the
innocent terror of childhood dreams, never to know
Lovers’ true screams and lose them and hunt them like
Seams of gold, My lover.

We sit all night with the blinking bulbs. And no matter how
I coo or caress his hair, his tongue won’t move, anywhere.

3 thoughts on “Porphyria’s Lover, A Version

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