the sweet spot
she weeps
& creaks
into the ooze & creep & scrape
& crushing crackle of whenever
trim / shape / slice / sculpt to
feed this
unstable dislocation
every crazy corkscrewed thing
braiding
birds
– in and out of cages (yellowing wallpaper)
or tangles of manicured truth
what do you reckon – pink or blue?
is there a sweet spot?
merging the question
she unwraps
another
sixty shades of purple
kaleidoscopic calamari
curating the caricature
chargrilling
hearts
nicely done
unboxed:
it’s a little bit Saturday
when I
bite into your
warty heart
(a hearty treat)
Sunday is no longer
such a
terrifying
prospect
violent parasomnia
peachskinned
she commits murder
in her sleep
walking
painting the apple
spitting rainbows
such strange delights
what did it taste like?
breaking hearts
glow & she’ll eat you alive
not being Kate Bush
first time i saw her on Top of the Pops singing
Wuthering Heights i wanted to be Kate Bush /
& it was 1978 & I was not-so-sweet sixteen but
i wanted to be her for the next 30 years because
she was everything i aspired to be / & because you
admired her talent & creativity / respected her
originality / fancied her incredible mind & perfect
body / if i could only look more like she did (i
frizzed my hair / dyed it russet / wore bright leg
warmers & tight vests) learn to sing like her (i
had lessons) / write profound lyrics & memorable
music (i got a music degree & composed songs)
but i could never be her & as i approach my sixtieth
birthday / hear Running up that Hill play on a nostalgia
radio show / i wonder / why / i tried so hard / for so long
to be someone else / for you / manicuring authenticity
why i never felt enough / if i could only
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