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