Anger Day # 2 by Douglas Thompson


If I had not learnt what hurts a little sand
if I could only love the black hairs
sparking off inside my independence
so many clashing fingers
they are looking for when the night
ever reaching that climax that patterns the what I am
from a reptile to a bird of many voices
language which makes leathery caviar of traffic
at their game swathed in coming away
no pre-written tombstone on the metro
the music I listen feel things freeing myself in some
interruptions of someone in perfect symmetry

Short red pale lips
I didn't get close enough to women in dictionaries
superimposed into the ribs of mannequins
dress in their best superlative beauty
tangled in their eyelashes and whip make-up
on and make myself bare
growing rapidly into the blue
my pale skin bronze like knife
go around the bedroom mercy of another wearer
desperately high heels humiliation of two of us amused
by music ended and lipsticked mouths
let slip through a tiny caramel-coloured morning
addicted it is completely music. But I know
unravaged Utopia somewhere.

Broken free sexually involved with foreign aura
we have stayed in a single moment
where I am not romantic in the slightest
if people wouldn't feel these melancholies
but sadness flow like a river
experience just as an animated thousand creatures.

Rattle apart since the third airless room
last night covers pressing down on my head
he kissed and mumbled my presence
from place to place or all imagination
to dominate those impulses
a different place a different city of lovers.
 
It's not in every street they flatten themselves into shop doorways
wrap their experience which they spend their lives around
dark skin, brown eyes, hair that curls around eight
as though puberty has come early.