Furies of Anne Gray Harvey: (mild content)

 
For you, my confessor,
from the garter-belt of my soul;
to the undergarments of my hell,
pressed upon the Hoffman.
Pressed within the steam of a child god.
 
The room cocoons me like a shroud
I'm a penguin out of water,
a fish out of oxygen;
facing the corner, crying poetry.
Feeling myself through cotton knickers.
You father, who thinks to sanitise me,
with your overbearing mouth.
You father, who wishes to own this parody of a sylph
you have always owned me.
I hate you for owning.
 
Words for you mother,
my words, bee stings that branded you.
Branded and stung you over and over,
Not lies but truths
hovering in your face, like a humming bird
sliding its tongue down that selfish throat.
You mother, who choked and gagged
like a toothless whore on them;
they were all of my own birthing
Mrs. Gray Harvey, my mother dear.
 
I see you loitering in my light,
like vampire moths ready to suck me,
ready to drink me; tête-a-tête.
I gave you poetry and you gave me what,
the catwalk, the dark catwalk
that gave you invisibility behind your garish flashbulbs?
why must it always be the dark, dark, dark.
 
My microphone; my husband's cock,
they listen like depraved monks
begging me to put out.
I live through them, wet with life and words.
Why do you, husband, force me? I feel alive and dead,
unsure which shoreline to follow.
Your grains of sand sharp and painful.
 
I know that much;
no don’t touch me, I’m alone without hands,
to reach out, whom can I touch --
Myself?
I know that much;
left in my naked reality
under a blanket of dark
light and isolation. a thorazine queen
barefoot and belt-less.
Will you feel my breasts,
my spine, a calf, the crease of me?
Feel them.
Bring me back.
Light me a cigarette.
Is anyone there, hello?
 
I the canary sang
for you,
you who would allow me to be gassed
snuffed, like the flame of a paper match.
Even when you parted me I was alone;
ready to be impaled like a piece of pork
and left on the heat of dead coals.
 
And I?
I rest with help, the fumes of carbon plumes
put my anguished self to sleep, read on the third,
dead on the fourth. The irony of death,
smoke inhalation to the extreme.
Sing me a cigarette in stilettos.
Sing me a vodka with olive.
Sing me a bed with Linda, divine Linda,
child of my fucking loins.
Loin of my unhappy thrush, song-less
among the dying magnolia.
 
I know that much;
I know of a girl in a room
Locked away like a dangerous thought.

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