Delilah Des Anges - Year of the Ghost: Collected Poems 2011

Delilah Des Anges Delilah Des Anges 2011 Printed by House of D Publications & Lulu.com ISBN#: 978-1-4710-5745-8 All rights reserved. YEAR OF THE GHOST: COMPLETE POEMS
2011 This is the first train cutting through decay The winter leaves slithering swiftly away Where wheels touch iron theres a springing spark As we rattle inexorably out of the dark This is the night service churning forth into day The dead wet wasteland to spring gives way Where the tracks criss-cross ever out of sight As we rattle inexorably out of the night This is the engine of dawns first gray The bare winter twigs will take no delay Where smoke strokes the sun as she is born As we rattle unstoppable into the dawn aim your cannon high my friends lest you smash the foot soldiers in the knee and know that when you scold the cook you dont disarm the army. Our service is abruptly halted by an unseen obstacle on the line this train was never on time, and the passengers mutter as the engine stalls and stutters, the walls streaked with grime and cables, and like the goblins of forestland fables the rats go dancing, silent beneath our aching feet. But at street-level the citys stillness poses a whole new set of fears; in the years since our departure the taxis and the urban heart are slowing And the rumour is growing that our clockwork metropolis will one day
stop like this train in her birth canal; the earth will send a cardiac arrest through the remaining roads, and we will relinquish our loads, freed slaves,
toppling up to our graves, Along cramped and forgotten escalators. But below our toes the rats dance a foxtrot and if we never make it up
top They will keep a warehouse rave upon our wasted bones; it is the rats who
own this city. This is your hand-held skyline the peaks of mountains piercing your lifelines; Sorry, I said I would give you no more gifts at least not the ones that tear at your skin like this, but the spires are so pretty in your palm and who can say with honesty that they charmed a city so efficiently that it alit upon their wrist? Reassembling a metropolis without instructions is the work of several
lifetimes Corrupting the lifeblood of a landscape Takes only a second; cough and watch the poison spread like mercury in the heart, filling the liver with lead, boiling the clean thoughts from your head and slashing your sinuses with grit; building a dream takes an eternity, breaking it less than a minute. This is your hand-held skyline the peaks of mountains piercing your lifelines; Sorry, I said I would give you no more gifts at least not the ones that tear at your skin like this, but the spires are so pretty in your palm and who can say with honesty that they charmed a city so efficiently that it alit upon their wrist? Reassembling a metropolis without instructions is the work of several
lifetimes Corrupting the lifeblood of a landscape Takes only a second; cough and watch the poison spread like mercury in the heart, filling the liver with lead, boiling the clean thoughts from your head and slashing your sinuses with grit; building a dream takes an eternity, breaking it less than a minute.

We do not buy apples from South Africa (the world is on fire and I am excited) We do not support the whip hand or the boot heel (the world is on fire and I am burning) We do not tether ourselves to hatred, only ideals (the words are alight and the sunset is real).

The diagnosis is hypochondria again: prospecting for scar tissue on your heart will find only seamless perfection theres nothing, stop crying, youre fine. What would I know about my mind, I know, After all, its only mine. Unlike the stiffs that stalk beside me in the subways and the streets, I walk forward not backward outpacing my own feet on the race to self-destruction, not peeping furtively over my shoulder at my desertion, not peering to see how whole I once was. Sitting: homework, assignments, tests bloodwork, ESR, nomograms And on the examining table lying forgotten in a paper shroud drooling protests echo-loud as the turned backs of nurses become a shrill and sniggering crowd I am Crying wolfwolfwolfwolf but you examine the toothmarks in turn and sigh, line after line face after twisted faade it was only a bloody dog and it didnt even bite you that hard. It isnt easy.

Seeing the flames, seeing the tamed fire settle on your lashes like snowflakes (or his dandruff. He has dandruff, right? Right ?) when you talk about how you had such a swell time last night; It isnt easy. Sixteen fights on a live mans chest because the bottle in the bar got bumped; and his broken fingers form a secret sign he knows the fault was not his, that the loss is mine did you really care about spilled beer are we really bleeding in a parking lot for your wasted Bud, buddy? It isnt easy. Your mouth twists a serene smile I could wipe the skin from his shins the blood from his bones the beauty from his crippling kindness and his open-hearted words and drown him in the open toilet of my want. My. Mine . Mine .

It is easier when he chokes back fear and I swallow in the acid cavern of my grasping body; mine. he s mine. It isnt easy. Slicing deli-sized slivers of cheek between sentences; you had a good time last night with him Slipping distractions through the conversation like land mines; you think you have a future there and within I have a war zone a thousand covert operatives all lacing my words with anti personnel crimes against my sanity. It isnt easy. ( for Jess R )

Before I met her I thought they came with only two types of packaging; the ones who bleed as soon as you look at em (leaking from the eyes, love from their mouths, pretty soon the whole stinking affair is heading swiftly south I dont mean fucking, I just mean the fucking affair is over ). and the ones with the armour so tight you cant even finger em without scarring your soul on the sharp slots where the plates join. and the ones with the armour so tight you cant even finger em without scarring your soul on the sharp slots where the plates join.

I thought she was one of them, you know, the ones with the overlapping scales insert the crowbar between the cracks (i love you i love you) and pry them loose; boom you love me too. She had a soft shell, and the words sank and bounced; there was no seam; just thanks. I like you a lot. Leashing the crowbar to a stronger weight violence and language, how else do you strip the sheeting from an over-armoured car i love you (and an open hand on the cheek; soft as a hurricane, slow as lightning, a storm to shake the words out) i love But she had a soft shell and there was no echo. I will love the words out of you on the tips of my fists I will. I will it.

She dented and rebounded; no echoes, no reverb, no reaction, to the stinging thorn where I love you pricks; just this: I know .

If you will fetch the milk, my dear, and I will cook the soup, If you can mop the floors, my love, and I will sweep the stoop, If you will wear the ring, my heart, and I will twist the facts, We can leave this brave boys bright blood to be licked up by the cats. ( for Laura ) The princess looks up from her cage of thorns and says, let me wear your face. I will be a pauper and work the fields and you may take my place. Who is the victor in an exchange where one is the prisoner, and the other the slave, and your fingers are pricked or feet worn until you reach the grave? The pauper looks up from his self-dug trench and whispers, let me wear your yoke, youll be the slave and I the driver ... what a funny joke.