YOUR TRUE LOVES ARE THE END OF THINGS
Rest, they say. The vanquished heart
is a peaceful heart,
no more need for questing. The victory
is soft, soft
as the invisible fall of a wasted eyelash, but definite
as railtracks. You can pass into legend, now. I have
a file for you, between
this and that,
him and her,
them and it.
Daedaleum,
flicka-flicka-flicka-flicka -
I got you stuck in this moment, just as I come
in a room and your head goes up
goes up-goes-up-goes-up.
The colour of your iris is immaterial.
Flicka-flicka-flicka-flicka.
Smile a little. Who ever knew what you
were thinking anyhow? I made another crock of shit,
that’s all. My zoetrope love, pushing back your chair,
half rising-half rising-half rising.
tilt-tilt-tilt-tilt your neck
and smile, look away. You,
pretending not to see me, pretending
not to see you. You, looking out the window,
at an empty glass – you fold your arms and
it hurts my heart.
You and me, we wear our scars
like lacework across the skin of tripe. We ought
to be snatches of light, escaping their gyre-ing gaps.
Flicka-flicka-flicka-flicka-
flicka-flicka-flicka-
flicka-flicka-
flick.
is a peaceful heart,
no more need for questing. The victory
is soft, soft
as the invisible fall of a wasted eyelash, but definite
as railtracks. You can pass into legend, now. I have
a file for you, between
this and that,
him and her,
them and it.
Daedaleum,
flicka-flicka-flicka-flicka -
I got you stuck in this moment, just as I come
in a room and your head goes up
goes up-goes-up-goes-up.
The colour of your iris is immaterial.
Flicka-flicka-flicka-flicka.
Smile a little. Who ever knew what you
were thinking anyhow? I made another crock of shit,
that’s all. My zoetrope love, pushing back your chair,
half rising-half rising-half rising.
tilt-tilt-tilt-tilt your neck
and smile, look away. You,
pretending not to see me, pretending
not to see you. You, looking out the window,
at an empty glass – you fold your arms and
it hurts my heart.
You and me, we wear our scars
like lacework across the skin of tripe. We ought
to be snatches of light, escaping their gyre-ing gaps.
Flicka-flicka-flicka-flicka-
flicka-flicka-flicka-
flicka-flicka-
flick.
Jane Burn is a writer and illustrator based in the North East of England. Her poems have been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies, from The Rialto, Iota Poetry, Obsessed With Pipework, The Interpreter's House, the Black Light Engine Room Literary Review, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Beautiful Dragons and the Emma Press. She is also the founder of the online poetry site, The Fat Damsel https://thefatdamsel.wordpress.com/
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