Catherine Kustanczi-Johnson

 

Thief

 

you kept me in a prison of notes

I escaped in colour

you kept me in a cell of black ink on pages

I vanished into lead

I keep wanting to see that face that's my own

and I keep getting robbed

I keep wanting to feel that person that's me

and I keep feeling a void

and shaking w/ that shrill sound

that is your voice

not mine

and I wonder

if it'll ever

actually

fucking

change

into a silence

I can

live

with

 

Plague

 

we talked around it beside it at either end roundabout over under far away

came that close

but not so near as to touch it

maybe it would have exploded

deflated

maybe it would have bled

leaving copious red stains on such an ugly carpet

 

he hugged me like he meant it

 

but maybe he's that good

maybe

 

I'm not going to keep on hurting you

 

we wouldn't go near it then

& won't now

 

to see you again

is going to hurt

more than anything

 

 

talking around

what we both know

seeing & knowing

& not saying

avoiding the truth

like leprosy

 

Post

 

the smile's an ache

the thrill's a hurt

the newness is old hat

the heels have broken & I'm walking barefoot

the mascara's run from niagara leakings

the hands are just empty

the bright colours haven't faded but have dried on the canvas & seem burnished with the gold of remembrance

I've run out of words like a tap gone dry, only dribbling out the occasional rusty droplet for a tease

you know how it is

this was supposed to be simple

& it isn't.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Catherine Kustanczi-Johnson

Sentinel Poetry (Online) #50January 2007   ISSN 1479-425X

THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY & GRAPHICS...since December 2002

Editor-in-Chief: Amatoritsero Ede

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