hunger

outside the ragged bird tears
dead flies from the window nets

      and it is not clothed right
      - it claws the glass


suspend I

from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet

from the branches they reach down
laden with fruit
out on the limb
      birds beat them for their dessicated meat
making sweetmeats for desperate bills

a man is clipping the edges with steel
season’s treachery



suspend I

from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet

from the ceiling hooks
float down wisps of
red thread - almost

cobweb light she is
arched back unsure
whether to suspend

burnt orange silks
cover the shutters
there are children in the street

she is nonetheless
quite bound-up
in red ropes

from loop at nape
and length of torso
it is peaceful, still.

being spider-rolled
webbed-in and arched
as if.                             a

bird swoops down
behind the orange silks
                                      shiftshape-in

 
suspend I
                                      as if
she were an exotic fruit
a seed caught in breeze

from the mirror architrave
float down  silken threads
they are not blackened yet

cobweb light she is
arched back unsure
whether to suspend

in the red threads
that loop at her nape
down the length
of her torso

dividing and opening
her out achingly
if she moves the
threads will tighten
                      the harpies are perched in the suicide-trees

---

ceremony

the red rope is looped around the neck
and brought down the back to the bra-line

it tightly binds across the top of the chest and
is looped down to the cunt lips separating them

held-to and pulled in the back arches back
bow-bent as if its wood had seasoned in

an iron girder above hot embers and released
steam onto a still lake the hook retracts when

the dress slides into a blue ripple onto the boards
there are six hooks embedded into the ceiling

stockings catch up the desert breeze on a small
balcony , a strip of silk portholes the room and

sutras are tacked into the walls the hooks do not
look as if they could carry the weight of an inert body

spider-rolled silk-skeined red-cocooned
the bird panics spider-fruits from under
dry eaves 

these net-webs are laden with the small dead
best not to move  he is demented with hunger.

© C. Murray 2013, 2021
Copyright 2013 Chris Murray

Published Ditch Poetry
Online URL https://www.ditchpoetry.com/christinemurray.htm
Collected The Blind Oneiros Books, 2013

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