Heavy

Her perfume smells of alcohol,
Eyes are black until white
Eyes of liquid spill onto carpet,

Smoke above and below
Heavy air hoods head,
Settle down heavy as stone,

This opponant's skin of cobalt,
Hard lustrous grey,
Produces a radioactive tracer,

Which moniters me all day,
Tonight I am dead -
Metal of gunpoint,

She glides towards door
Thick voices come uncalmly,
Motionless leaves me,

Air the colour of arsenic
Jilts her red dress
Until first of escapes,

Once again she's at the door,
She stretches upwards
And stays like porcilain,

She is blue and green dust
In Bronze age paints,
She will not come through the door again



**This is something I've just edited like crazy. I wrote it about october 2007. It reads completely different from the original, which is good because the original was rubbish. I wasn't going to do anything with it at all, but now got this poem.

It's about when I first met my friend whom I lived with in 2007/08. She'd just moved in the flat. I wanted to describe her and the atmosphere, but couldn't do it. Only now - a year and a half later - I can write something about it.

The cobalt image comes from two places (three including my head). The University interview 2 weeks ago where I was told to read The Road by Cormac McCarthy (which I am) and it's use of the image of grey and how he keeps up different images of the same colour. And 2, I just bumped into a Sylvia Plath poem that does what I was trying to do. In her poem 'Jilted' she has images of acid and vinigar and lemons, whereas I have cobalt and arsenic and metal.

I don't often put poems in stanzas. But I sort of like it. It will be edited again sometime. It's the 15th in a file of poems I've collected and edited. Of which will be halved and probably the end result will be my best poems.