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