MAYHEM
Issue Two – November 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
Mike Bilodeau
Poetry: The morning after
I want to say I love you.
I want to tell the world that your rich, golden eyes boiled the sapphire reflection of the moon
from the night sky.
That we danced constellations, cleaving our bodies through the dark ebony night.
I want to tell tales of how my fingers never truly felt until they fell upon your ivory shoulders.
How my mouth had never drawn breath until your lips caressed me to life.
I want to feel time splinter, to feel space rip,
to see the earth careen past its slow arc into the blinding darkness.
I want the universe to crumble under the magnitude of what we’ve created.
But that will never happen.
Truth be told, you’re the barnyard slut who wakes alongside my splitting headache and flooding
feeling of regret.
You’re that foreign, nameless stranger; tongue dripping stale whisky and awkward plans of
getting breakfast together.
This isn’t some blue-sky, golden-sun tale of star-crossed lovers and fulfilled destiny.
This is the very live and visible act of repression, taking place before your crusted, stagnantcoffee colored eyes.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author
MAYHEM
Issue Two – November 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
Sorry to say sweetheart, but the flower-petal words I pumped into you last night were nothing
but purpose driven pieces of rehearsed bullshit, strategically placed to weaken your knees and
ease my path to that damp, well-used crawl space between your legs.
You, with your fat, marbled hips, constantly cold to the touch.
You, with your yellowed skin and nicotine filled pores.
Every word which crawls from your cracked lips splashes bile on to the back of my whitened
tongue.
Every inch of my body which fell under your clammy hands feels diseased and dirty.
Feels as though it needs to be excised.
Feels as though it needs to be torn from me, lest your wretchedness spread like gangrene.
I wish that the very thought of our love had the power to cripple me;
the power to drag the earth to a standstill,
the power to draw out the boundaries of the possible; but sweetheart,
I really just want you to get the fuck out of my bed.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author