BONDED, WE WERE BOUND.
Bonded, We Were Bound.
We were bound by
“Bum a Smoke” night, right?
Is it psychiatric help I need
Or a crystal ball?
A Poet’s heed.
Or to fall?
What is this?
What am I after?
It is not love
From which I suffer.
But I caught a glimpse
On a feed today of you
There again that ol’ feeling:
wanting to CONSUME you.
What is this?!
What am I after?!
It is not love
From which I suffer!
I like to swim,
Not drown.
I like mountains,
Not rolling down ‘em.
I like the view,
Not to plummet.
I like the sun,
Not a burn in summit.
Kundera said the heaviest of burdens
Is life’s most intense fulfillment.
So, the sea swallowing me to the bottom treasured dark depths of mystery, yes!
So, the mountain robbing my lungs on high, me tumbling south freely in speed-velocity thrill, yes!
So, the higher height the longest road to free fall upon the easy breeze, yes!
So, the heat and brilliance searing with climaxing illumination upon my skin in extinction, yes!
Screwing me:
The closest we’d ever be.
Yet dejected,
Ultimately
In abandon…
Oh dear,
I can do this!
No you did not.
A leg bruise,
You cannot
Remember: blackout …
I got it!
I wanted to suck you in
Like a cigarette!
Feels so fucking good,
And it makes me so sick.
© Sylvie Hill 2014
Art: dixon / Secret Santa Art Exchange / spray paint and enamel on wood / 2004 —