ten words seeking self hatred

whip time against some wall
pitted and broken by fists
when late night makes broken
hands more desirable than
touching flesh near enough.

remember if you see that body
lying beside you as a person -
leaving, not calling, gets harder

I’ll give you one year, she said
and you took it night by night
until all you had left were two
hands reaching for what was missing

this is the way worlds turn
this is the way worlds turn
bite your tongue and you feel

sleep all day or work and forget
how what night gave flew with
apple cores, banana peels,
under coffee grounds in trash

my thing, new one says, my thing
is what happens, happens go
with it everything has purpose -
teeth marks in shoulders always heal

woman, human, inhumane, dismantle,
manhandle, manage, mismanage - man
always somehow in there, somewhere

no, Mr. Eliot, not like ancient women,
but young, and sweet, new - revolving,
burning fuels of desire in worlds dark
enough to forget come morning, alone

if you lift your life in air like
a kite on a windy day and just can’t
let go, remember some tree, power line
will rise - a blessing to help you

one said once, anything you want, but
don’t hold my hands during, ok. ever
since you search for one who holds your
hand walking beaches, in early coffee
shops, in sleep, when her cries echo -
knowing nothing else will ever be enough

Ed Shannon

If you've any comment on this poem, Ed Shannon would be pleased to hear from you.