Corners. Poem by Mary X

I was never one
to complain about
the incandescent
murmurs in each
slant of this pit.

This slant
marked by a Queen,
a scented spray
tumbling
through the ray
of air and surfacing
as a mark of territory.

This slant
marked by a Shadow,
a solitary
eccentric entwined in
it’s own demands
and complications –
the dead-certain rose.

This slant
marked by an OCD patient,
an obsessive to
an obsessive
violent brute
of a human life.
overpowering urge
whisper that will never
be veiled by
an Elephant-man
mask.

This slant
has yet to be marked
but I’m sure a hissing figure
stuck in a rut
of living,
needing some joy fulfilment
to
stimulate
it’s sexual organs
will traipse
into my time;
use the fact
(that) I
am male
then screw me up
and throw me into
my own nauseating
tomb.


just like


all the
other
wise-men
did.