YRKB
03-04-2013, 03:04 PM
It has always been, just a little townhouse;
Simply painted shutters incising the afternoon sun.
Neither hers, she felt -
Nor his.
And he has always come, now and again,
Unsmiling and intent,
Since her installment at 13 -
Four languid years or so -
To slip beside her,
Where she remains
Consistent as
His weekend thing.
It has always been, from it's balcony,
In passing -
On people's angled lips that she'd conceive;
''The General's Mistress''.
And been ashamed. Enraged.
Defiant.
Needing to appear indifferent.
Yet, now -
When rebel fists sound out on the door downstairs;
And suddenly,
Looking at the General -
The man, this man, for which she has surely
Never felt...
The sensation of this townhouse being
Home
Her's - and her his,
Is all - at once - certain, and religious.
That she does not want to see this
New Order
Or a day -
Without the shaking,
broad bellied elder,
his dark haired arms,
Sandalwood skin
and thick-lashed almond eyes
wide open beside her -
is an unspoken gospel.
A song he will never hear her sing.
So they are dragged,
to the street
her hands flailing for his -
the fallen man's screams; guttural,
primitive emissions,
so unlike anything -
she'd have likened them to before.
Naked, knocking bodies
trailing cobbles
snagging stone
omitting a stemless liquid,
everywhere,
in deep red,
for everyone to enjoy.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown
Simply painted shutters incising the afternoon sun.
Neither hers, she felt -
Nor his.
And he has always come, now and again,
Unsmiling and intent,
Since her installment at 13 -
Four languid years or so -
To slip beside her,
Where she remains
Consistent as
His weekend thing.
It has always been, from it's balcony,
In passing -
On people's angled lips that she'd conceive;
''The General's Mistress''.
And been ashamed. Enraged.
Defiant.
Needing to appear indifferent.
Yet, now -
When rebel fists sound out on the door downstairs;
And suddenly,
Looking at the General -
The man, this man, for which she has surely
Never felt...
The sensation of this townhouse being
Home
Her's - and her his,
Is all - at once - certain, and religious.
That she does not want to see this
New Order
Or a day -
Without the shaking,
broad bellied elder,
his dark haired arms,
Sandalwood skin
and thick-lashed almond eyes
wide open beside her -
is an unspoken gospel.
A song he will never hear her sing.
So they are dragged,
to the street
her hands flailing for his -
the fallen man's screams; guttural,
primitive emissions,
so unlike anything -
she'd have likened them to before.
Naked, knocking bodies
trailing cobbles
snagging stone
omitting a stemless liquid,
everywhere,
in deep red,
for everyone to enjoy.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown