Ending

 

He, who covered my body

with snail-trails,

whose hands were wrack

swept over my skin,

kisses on my back

a colony of shell fish.

 

He, who would have crossed a mountain range

for an hour between my thighs

now crawls over me

with wizened passion.

Gutted of love,

he comes clawing,

scavenging; 

and insults me with lies

that have made greater pincers 

of his mouth than his hands.

 

What does he see in me?

 

Meat to excite him,

his groper's desires,

even his fingertips betray him.

But no more,

the erotic becomes ugly,

decrepit manoeuvres disconnected

from their original meanings;

the touches stain you.

 

I have watched him slither from my gaze

a thousand times a night 

while slipping the word love 

from his vocabulary;

watched him develop this communication

of knives and forks.

Angry

Among the blocks of the establishment

a flawless rise bolted your trust; 

success was cement,

all loose notions were pebble-dashed.  

Now you revise:

the establishment, its self-righteous system:  

how many bodies like you

have fallen from the sides to point the pyramid?  

And how many times did you skate over principles,

that I remember, you once held dearly?