By Vincent De Souza
I am craziness. In a restroom mausoleum,
self-love destructs, a private harming pit.
I slow on floated steps, swim the ground;
hunched, I bend at basin, a fullest puke -
drugs of sudden spike, wake to otherness.
Some soundless hurt plays its pitiful tune.
Remember the airbed in your empty pool?
Outside, I lie flattened on softened snow;
razor in hand, bared, I rip skin into furrows.
High on our last embrace - sips of red wine;
my white flesh glistens in the ruby stream,
blood’s sombre say spreading before me.
A wiper-blade - my strokes on icy stone;
soon I’ll fly, outward expulsion to a shore.
A look to sky - these hands, hardly mine,
brushstrokes to style my boned aviation.
Arm wands, marking of clock-hand wings;
you, next angel, will visit here with noise.
Survivor - you will memorise the messy end;
each January, appear starkly on the given day.
Place my smokes, balance an unused lighter;
bring gifts, delights where my body mass lay.
Quieten - in soil, I’ll murmur, cherub or fiend;
if you hear any pain, bless my set black eyes.