Ugly (unborn child of a dead and screaming love)

As the leaves dance,
I celebrate our dead love

That once upon a time lived and roiled inside of me
that unborn child
now drowned by the blood of this slit neck,
thick blood pouring forth what was to be
silkily creeping down the inside of thighs.

Now this love unmakes us both
as you flit onwards, new loves already welcome in your soul, in your bed

(is her cunt as wet and tight as mine? does she cry out with you? is it good, is it good? Does she move with you there, as I did? Is there a making of love between you, as there was between us? or are you lost in that small black room, where no one has the key?)

And here I am, alone with this child of grief.
bloody body of this babe,
slick blood on my thighs.

.................................................................................................

And, just for the fun of contrast - here's what I was writing when that relationship broke. I will possibly regret sharing this deeply... (especially the melodrama of the brackets) but hey, poetry. is the art of making oneself vulnerable? Doesn't Alex Gray talk about the relief of art being taking what is inside, and making it into something outside? This was very definitely something that was inside, then, in an intense time. Also inspired by images from dreams I was having, then.