[Image from Pinterest]
[Inspired by Moby’s “Machete”:]
Head spinning, not here:
three tubes of thick fresh blood
taken at needlepoint to discern,
decide, whether this life
she lived was threatened –
by something inside.
Eyes roving ceiling, not aware:
the rhythm of night just gone
beating her pulse still, like his,
together each inside each,
skin against skin, heat for heat –
joined by fluid lust in blood.
Deed done, arm free:
but soul chained from union nocturnal
to be repeated, God knew when,
but soon, let it be soon –
she almost swooned – too much,
the blood, the… then.
Walking now, foot before foot:
sore, her body, sore, her heart;
sore too her mind from worry
over everything – the this,
the him. Beautiful,
tortured cliche of tattooed him.
Thoughts too many. Crowds, too,
a song too loud, too strong:
she falls to ground; into his arms
as she dreams, wrung dry; out-strung.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]