May 2015 - Comments Off

Rory Cullen

Marked

I am an action star
on my first rescue mission.
I jump from a plane & die
a total of three times
before the film falls.
I come back
to an interstellar
playground teeming with lovers.
They swarm the jungle
gym lit by the expanse
of stars. Celestial
bodies; never closer.
Venus looked more like Mars
than ever before.
You are there.
You are writing your memoir.
I offer you
a cigarette. You say
No, thank you.
Your eyes opaque.
Mine drip.
I dip my hand,
& touch the marks
on your wrist.
They leap from you.
You mutter something.
I reply, I know.
You walk away to the one
you should have loved.
I hug myself
as moonlight crawls
& falls on the floor,
& solidifies into silver island-nations.

The Shore

There is no end in sight. The waves like hot
hands pawing. The lip of the horizon brushes
your waist. You seem so small. The pale moon
invades you. Your knees shake at the beating
wind which wraps around you like a tongue.
Your clothes whip at you. It is not too
quiet when we go. Some call these noises
bliss, but you are awash in something dangerous,
Toward the ocean's maw you walk. What can hurt you
does. Your feet raise because they must. Your hair
is always falling. The strands look like static
in the sand. Your body: lithe, erratic,
an internal dial turned too low, too long
stuck on mute. How it happens then.
We dance on the shore. You step in glass
without my ever noticing.

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