By | 23 September 2001

I'm the very picture of red-lipped
hot-blooded petulance:
you comment on the glow of my cheeks –
rouge has done wonders

for my complexion. You see,
I'm usually very pale, & look as though
I'm wasting away. A touch of colour,
& I suddenly take on

all the lethargic allure of consumption.
I mean, the truth is,
I'm being consumed by madness. My eyes see
your face, everywhere, in every

thing. In fact, all my work,
these scribblings, well – they're all
about you, somehow.
Except, nothing I write comes from me

at all – it's like there's something
else, some voice
inside my head,
or maybe something larger –

speaking through me.
And also, you see,
I am likely to die
violently, any moment now,

by my own hand. My life's work
will be cut short,
and people will lament the death of another
thirty-something smoking housewife.

This entry was posted in 09: MUSIC and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work: