Petra Whiteley

The Blackout

The furniture has never been moved,
the clock burnt faults within.


In this blackout
someone will forgive you
  (some of) your flesh.

The Chosen
autochthonous bond -
the placenta of the annihilation
cut lengthwise, drowning reality.

  the wide arch of spit
whilst sketching your pomp
till you feel inside.


Choose equilibrium
of agony relapsed
during the protracted years
of appropriation
of certain crepuscule,
always empty and tight-drawn
around the skull.

Breathe yourself in.

  I hear
the sermons
  are cataclysm loud.


The crack opens the rehearsal
of this unspeakable ruin,
the stock-exchanged pain -
 the rape of others

untalked in speeches on scaffoldings,
the streets incontestably bright-dressed
in elation of this long, long march.

What is it in you? - the oscillation
of the delusion and affectation
of barren mumbles, the clung of cheers -
the carnival of habitual cannibal in you.


  The paradigm
shall (not?) pass the hungry - the resurrected
hounds, splayed bloodily across the inverted
  amulet of crossed wrists.
In stillness there is the spatial decay
the ornamental purpose of absorption.

The filter and lament of Self behind
the uneven walls of the depressed
house-fronts. The trenches.

So fasten the seatbelt
of the ending - the perfidy
on the sludge of your tongue,
unrestrained and oozing fractions,
institutionalised stick up -
the natural selection
of bête noire. The raptorial expression
engraved onto the marble faces.

It is merely the result of living quiet.

Petra Whiteley © 2009