truth

The truth drowns every hour
it’s the salt in the wound
the rust in the cradle

you have written the truth over and over
the ink blisters
on your skull – Listen

to the ghosts
to the clink of teeth
downstairs

wake up. Wake up again.

the truth drowns every minute
bright white birds
immobilised
in iciest water

if you believed in truth you’d never live
but there are places
you can go
to take the teeth out
so it can’t talk over you

but it’s getting there

it’s tiptoeing
along
the spine
of that dragon, memory –
without
waking
it.

that’s the only hard thing about it.

psychoanalysis

Peel my eyelids back, in the bruise-light of your cavern. Tell me what you see. I’m a  spider-necked wisp with my throat wide open. Silver statuette, degenerate totem. Observe. What do you make of these inscriptions? I need you to delineate, tell me what I mean. I need thick, dark ink, reaching down into my spleen.  I need talons. Incisions. I need a rock pool to host all of this salt. Silence is the knife I hold between my teeth, day and night. Tell me, now, what I believe.

Turn off the lamp, give me your diagnosis – tell, tell, tell, tell, tell me who I am. Write it all down and watch me eat it. Let me taste that glitter in my mouth.