I know of the sun, of the light that pours over your tongue,
as you talk, talk, of it. I am a weight upon this image;
a shadow. I spread my black paint over all of your flowers,
leave my sooty hand print, etched in thick lines over your face.
I cannot help but to see grey where you see oranges and yellow.
The colours of the sunset are tainted, and I have accepted this blackness.
But if God were to listen, as I crook my head towards his sky, and
beam down for me a new set of eyes, I would snatch them up and
pluck these wretched, dull marbles from their ghastly caves, snip
away the rusty flesh and blow torch my face ‘till clean, and rid of
the remains. My old hands would stitch, with careful, white silk, these
new God balls, into my polished and perfumed pits. Now I can see.
But could I not before, was my vision not tainted at all? Was it you
who were the fool, who dreamed up these colours to amuse your
own pleasure. In hazes and hues my parents sprayed out for me, I
am of your kind again. I am a child. I am not bent out of shape by
an Uncle who tucked my hand into his metal crotch, by the shot gun
of vowels hurled at me by a mass in blue uniform. My bones are brass
pillars, my skin as solid and smooth as the river I once dared to drown me.
I am a new man, with a new Mother, she has not abandoned me yet.
Left me sunk into the back seat of a dim blue car, folded between my duvet
and pillows. She has not yet left this memory at the window, where she
never waved goodbye, nor lost herself in her garden, where she buries all of her time.
I am colour-blind, though colours are all that I see. They flash at me, and like vomit
Project chunks of garish untruths over buildings and trees and words. I am
distracted by their Noisy performance and I rebuke them fashionably.
I will water the world down, reformed to shades of sepia and grey, back, back, back to you. Back,
back to me.
I'm so happy you like it