Mayakovsky moment

You cannot stay here!  My walls no longer refrain from screaming at your piled high plates and soiled pants—littering the bedroom floor.  A war torn field full of sprawling corpses—stinking and sticking to the bare floor

The frost of a thousands winters spreads across my face like a glacier jutting into the side of the fated Titanic and no one is King of the World—as bodies fly like a circus trapeze and our ship sinks into the frigid black water with a silent song as you depart below.  Celine’s melancholy voice across miles of Dark Ocean, for you.

No love is left in this ice castle and no fish in the hole—only nothingness and the occasional tug on the line as you smile at me in the hallway hoping for a crack to appear in the stone of my face, an etched edifice of cold marble the arms wrenched away and the breasts forever erect nipples but never soft no never again.

For you there is only a foul taste left in your mouth as you drink the stale milk and it curdles underneath your tongue, opaque chunks like soft chewed food sliding out an old man’s mouth as he gums it to a slow death. 

A river of lost love, our love, winds down the twisting tunnels under the city streets mixed with all the muck and unlucky goldfish who go to a heaven fit for dime store pets—the water treatment plant recycles what it can so that we can love again.  Recycled passion flows from kitchen taps and spills out onto the floor making a wet carpet of new kisses and whispered promises.

Stars and smoke—choking breathe but I will be gone when you awake and the pillow will hold the shape while you call your mother to say that everyone is fine but

Hello? Oh no Mrs. Thorne we are not quarrelling, it is just the sound of the television and not your dear ones, those you know whose lives have been shattered.  Can you hear me?  I promise you he is fine and we are keeping warm in this unseasonable cold weather.   I still love this boy of yours of course I do but how can you understand that it’s complicated by that open window where the winter wind gusts through and I feel like sled dog tied to a post in the deep Antarctic exposed to raw cold so biting.  They will have to amputate this limb you see, it is black and dead and must go before the infection spreads.  You must know how necessary it is to cut away that which is dead.

But why?  Because my tears are hanging from my cheek like little knives making frozen cuts and the dark red flows past my lips to stain the dress you bought me in New York when the towers fell and we burned and they burned.  Cold fire.