Last night: visited again.
This time by two of them;
First, a pure-blood Magyar,
Black hair and corseted spine,
Mismatched eyes and lines
Of lace and ringed wood.
The second, pagan and nomadic,
Tattooed and haunted
Pipe smoke curling up thighs
Adorned with garter belts made
From pieces of woodland
Residue
The first promised light;
Bound wrists and quartz beads
Between breasts, my inspection
May pull me somewhere new
As warm, white hands might sweet away
The dust, the mists of my descent.
The second seemed to taste for harm;
Tiny scratches, horseback brass
Like little crucifixes and Ash trees,
Saplings lash and leave their prints,
“Make me a Punch for one night only
And let my lips touch soil.”
And these women raised the union flag
And writhed around my hands.
Tried to prick me into life
And collapsed, astonished and amazed
At their failure to raise a smile;
Astonished that I didn’t give a damn.
