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
Chris Murray 