Smooches For Shrapnel

It

is an art-form

to unblock a sink by screaming

down it. It was my tin-can

with strings

to you. A siren cutting

guitar strings with her teeth

all desire is a form of psychosis

a leech a magnet

to lousiness

and flooded

troubled brain.

It

is an art-form

to construct an orchestra

like Frankenstein

conducting flesh to flesh

sealing ourselves together

for shut-eye songs

flavour songs

push-rush and shove songs

all the best love songs are silent

and pierce solar plexus

damage.

It

is an art-form

to coffin up and ship off

to glass bottle to sea

to free

yourself of destination

the throbbing compass points

at perversely

to splinter and taper and shed

and wander

listless a charity

of momentary bliss.

It

is an art-form

this

to spend evenings curling

into another

trying on somebodies skin

fitting in

and spreading a canvas exquisite

with something you’ll later bleach.

It

is an art-form

to destroy

that which you create

merely to depart from.