“Which isn’t what I mean,” but her words are
breaking strangely, twisting every breath;
less profound than handy home-truths’ reign
of blows well made and laid in kitchen’s haste.
Blindly egg spins over easy, membrane
burst, too ugly now for plate but still
in time for Genie’s cheapest happy hour.
Exhausted, fear is splitting hairs among
old crumbs, acrid stains - they never fade.
Door slam is peace, no lying there at least.
Later, bruises will assert fresh claim to
flesh - unrivalled. Truth spills in Friday's blood
and milk full of ghosts - "Which isn’t what I …"
re-write:
"Which isn’t what I mean," but her words
break strangely - twisting every breath -
weak in handy home-truths’ reign.
Blows make haste - lay kitchen waste.
A blind egg spins over easy, membranes
bursting way too ugly for his palate.
Still, time's cheap in Genie’s happy-hour.
Exhausted, fear splits hair - old crumbs
and acrid stains - they never fade.
Door slam heralds peace - no lie in that!
Latest bruises will assert - unrivalled.
Truth spills in Friday's blood and milk,
full of ghosts .... "which isn’t what I …"
