2AM CONFESSIONS

your confessions
saturate the wings of the carrion-bird
like a premature funeral rite
for a dead god

his voice hovers over your head
in the temple of music and sweat
and you think that Orpheus
is drenching your skin
with the first wedded night
of a lover's death

slipping between the sheets
and remembered as a sacred oath
when loneliness embraces 2am
and wakes the resurrection

when the sky is cracked with your voice
and the moon has turned to stone
silenced by the clamp of claw and hand the worship of broken demand

TOPPLING

i dreamt his carefully shaped hand
painted a picture
with broken matchsticks
my braced and bitten mouth
planted like a stack of empty crated days
amongst the scultured tree
where his silence braided my hair
and his perfume tied my feet
to the cold hearted statue
in the unmade bed of careless idols
i never meant to keep

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