More melodrama. |
Eight, Nine, Ten. Here, now, The room is larger, with more space to amplify The sting and the scream of white walls. Life here is jarred and pickled and glared at From the beady, analytical eye Of every yellow-toothed, white-robed passer-by. A thick, muggy morning Sometime in early September; Most the leaves are green yet, but with a sad, Wilted look about them, as if all hope is lost. And look at you, quiet, apologetic patient, A bloodless spectacle Amongst bloodless objects in a lifeless room. Where is the metal in you? Blood machine, Do your worst. Strike me three more times in two arms With your bayonet hands and greedy magpie eyes. In the morning Say nothing as you strike, And bustle me along through corridors of red Like two colliding blood cells in a carpeted vein. Half an hour has passed, And still no syrup has dripped from these white limbs Where blue should be Conquering the expanse of my body like streams Of precious crimson honey, The stuff of want. You look as if to tie me down With those desperate bands you tie, You tie, And still no hope for the ignorant nurse Who knows nothing of strangling the woman out of a girl. You hopeless wretch, You come back to us another day With your drunken, watery veins And a teary little face, The face of a girl, With colour flushed from it Like blood sapped from a body. Meat puppet, meat puppet, We’ll see that you work again. |