The Days of HIm

The Days of Him

He had many in grandeur and lace,

He had many in the back alleys an his dilapidated space,

The climax like a fix he needs from anyone with a memorable scent,

And the scent he chases and chases for weeks and months,

Brought to him a line of follies their legs at the tip of the moons crescent

On the side of buildings which tower over the hungry and the homeless

More than anything he chases the twilight all the way through till morning,

When the realisation of what he's done comes and comes,

He feels infected, something darker has begun to manifest,

It is a disease which you cannot smell, taste see or feel,

It is more woefully permanent that no-one else will know.

Days and days go by with his ever wondering eyes,

Until one day he wakes up and hates himself and dies.

The Dream

Perhaps it was about him. Or maybe it was of that house which crumbled away with the eery winter wind. I remember pushing my infant hands into the rough wood to find her lying there. Alone, yellow and swollen form the medicine. That pungent scent of lavender musk on her sheer Ivory coloured gown, glazing her skin like a translucent film. Underneath was hiding long ailing lines of black stitches, holding together her fleshy slits as a reminder of her lost womanhood. I breathe deeper and slower to the point where I might just stop for a minute. I feel my torso wake up before my eyes peel open softly. I look around my room, on either side of my bed. I lift my head to see the door ajar with a gleam of yellow light seeping through from the landing. My heart was racing hard and my body throbbed with agitation and melancholy. The dream stayed with me all night and I felt it.