Saturday, July 30, 2011

the squat II


my chest is an abandoned church
the dusty, cobwebbed altar is my heart

my ribs are the ceiling beams bowed outwards
by the dust-star filled still pressure trapped within
the air is full of echos of the incense scent of organ moans
and the choruses of innocents
(you know, alone, I sing like ice cracking
but a river of voices makes a hymn ring
like rapids and gentle rain

I liked feeling part of a stream)

my chest is an abandoned church
in the highest corner there is a bird’s nest empty
around its precision and symmetry you can imagine
the small proud bird tending the twigs with twitching energy

his job now done, the bird is gone

my chest is an abandoned church
beneath this dense emptiness
you can just make out the parallel bruises
where the pews once knelt
the right-angled hardwood has left
but I can still see the shadows of pretty girls Sunday dressed
and feel the wooden backs worn smooth by
sweaty palms like candle wax

(now, there are no pews
but I still genuflect at the base of the nave
and always walk along rigid perpendicular lanes)

my chest is an abandoned church
there is a dandelion growing through a crack
in the knee-polished floor in the stained light of the sun
through the dirty glass see disheveled youths
lounge pensive on the stones of tombs
grave flowers in their locks
among empty gin bottles and dead cigarette butts

back inside, there is an
old school exercise book on the floor
on its cover, a crude penis in purple pen
and beneath that, in cursive red
‘who
is going to cleanse the doors?’

my chest is an abandoned church
look: the steeple rises like a hesitant fist
my totem; my family crest

1 comment:

  1. I read this and started writing. My chest sounds somewhat bloodier and messier than this one though.

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