Thursday, 2 August 2012



There is a proximity between the gun

And a virgin’s white wedding dress.

She stood staring down the barrel

The muffled voice behind the stocking
Forcing demands while her heart lay frozen
Her mind occupied with the cold bullets
That sat quietly in the twisted chamber
Defining her consciousness through anger,
Forcing her awareness upon them with the promise
Of imminent release: With an effort she could hear
The gun smile and smell the expectation of shed blood.

He lay on the floor naked, confused, watching the gun
As it abutted the sweating forehead of his lover, her hazel eyes,
Wet with unwanted prophecies, plead silently for an action
He was too terrified to give. He accepted the taunts, the boots
The chilling belief that an ending was coming
With the act of a finger pulling hard upon the trigger.
In the quietness of probability, his mind recalled
The voice of his father begging him for forgiveness.

Together and apart, they slept differently since the gun’s visit.
He lay tossing on the bed, his shame like warm urine,
Soaking the tangled sheets, while his rebellious mind
Forced replay after replay of his inaction, his bare bum
Quivering in the air as his lover’s forehead became indented
With the kiss of the gun’s barrel. She hardly slept at all,
Huddled as she was, in the dark recesses of the wardrobe
While she waited for a hard knock upon the door and the re-entry
Of the gun to finish the task it left uncompleted last visit.

It came not from the bullet
But from the gun
Not in the form of death
But in separation.
The two could not share the memory -
While her forehead throbbed with that hated kiss
And her mind sought cool shade and gentle thoughts,
His fists clenched and his voice boiled over
In reaction to his nightly remembered weakness.

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