hymen drum

And then the violent stars breaking through the blind wax hymen of the night
As if all time had been drawn taut and busted like a drumskin
And then the dum, dum, dum of the guns misfiring
As sage monk-lidded sleepy-eyed musicians consulted the augury
Of the dark frustrated bedstains of dead virgins.

Oh why was I ever born?
Thick with misery, I crept from the damp patch that was left
That was all that was left
And crawled, slow, amniotic, left of centre
To the window, to the bright fenestra
I could hear this screaming on the glass
Like white electric burning – it was me
It was my voice in my own ears, the slow sharp busting
Of the one, and then the other
Eardrum.

Oh let us be true to one another
Because our busted rollerskates can make no impression on
This dim hard ice of life, and history has blackened
So that through the soaking smoke and char
Of the dead doused fire, we have nothing left
Not even the shape of it in ash, not even the soursweet impression
Of our loss, whiskeybreath in the round mouth, on the dead dulled tongue

At some point, I forgot
Like a dead virgin, I forgot.
There was this dollfaced girl, I watched her on the bus
As she scratched beneath her knee where the bug had bit
I watched her scratch and scratch at it
Until she’d scratched away the itch
And with it, scratched the skin
Scratched all, and yet
At some point it would heal
At some point it would heal
And that’s the saddest part of all:
It all heals, and is gone.