ditch,

the poetry that matters

jennifer best

jennifer best is a writer living in montreal. she has been published in prose toad and blank magazine. you may visit her at psycheoflove.blogspot.com

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i.

sixty days ago i had no desire. cerebral suicide. nothing more than flesh on bone. sitting in a dark corner playing with death in each open hand no compromise. the buzzing in my head. an electric pulse.

beat. stop. the electric vibration. isolated theatrics. the suicide plays out like a brechtian love story. catastrophic in everything but death. do you see the stars in our eyes. the escape on route sixty-six towards the clearing. the bullet still around my neck as you enter. as you destroy the human reality of what is left in this apocalyptic world. a bad boy jesus with his mary magdalen whore.

 

ii.

the single moment where everything freezes. that single bullet. what a pretty little bullet you are. hanging from my neck. such a delicate caress metal against skin. the modern kiss. metal lips to flesh. the horses move in. stampede of aging youth. your name on the bullet in ivory letters. i finger the petals of your name and you meditate yourself into me. i want your name carved into my neck. the final sacrifice before the end of the night.

 

iii.

and we cried at the sight of the snow falling. we inhaled exhaled what we didn't need. shedding clothes to feel each flake. in each woven pattern we discover new histories. we make love against the tree of our childhood. the leaves long fallen. like a soldier salute we part ways. to be free like artaud no longer the caged white tiger. to burn the human spirit in the desert. eating peyote for breakfast as the sun murders us like the arab on the beach.

 

iv.

my desire has left me again.

 

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