Diaries Of Pirate
In the weak light of a weeknight
by Chloe Meakin
Mummy goes face down and drowns.
Mummy takes her tablets,
Mummy tries things with her tongue.
Mummy wipes the window with the curtain,
The curtain scrubs the outside gone.
Mummy likes this. It’s the way she is. Now there’s
Nothing but the jitter of filaments in light bulbs,
Nothing but the ache of flaking paint.
It’s much too late to hate this now.
It’s a clockwork kind of happiness.
Mummy has a face of hands and numbers.
In the stupid sunlight of a street light,
Pirate’s being dangerous with cars.
Pirate’s stuck on fences, Pirate’s stalking supper.
Pirate sits on limbs and haunches, hunkered, sneaking.
Now there’s nothing but the bounce and play.
Pirate likes this. It’s the way he is. Now there’s
Nothing but the skit and powder of the planet,
Nothing but a sensual mention of his muscles.
Pirate writes a diary, silent, violent.
It’s a letter from the lost days.
Pirate has a face of cursive script.
Something’s sickly. Something’s not quite right.
Mummy’s rocking something stillborn till it sleeps.
Mummy is a duvet. Mummy is a wire.
Mummy plugs herself into the silence.
Mummy’s secretly the carpet, and she’s secretly the video.
Mummy shines and shines like melamine.
She shifts her shape behind the bricks and stands,
Her hands apart like foreign lands.
Mummy’s lighting the lamps and praising them like Gods.
Ringing their plastic shells like bells and summoning.
Something’s thrilling. Something’s dark and sleek.
Pirate’s quite the creature, dashing through the gutters.
Pirate is a rollie, Pirate is a butt.
Pirate passes through the blood and lungs.
Pirate’s secretly a cobweb, and he’s secretly a bone.
Pirate crumbles into gruesome dust.
He worms his shape behind a shroud and hides,
His smile a split. A piece of shit.
Pirate’s killing the birds and breaking their muscles.
Cleaning the vanity of injury and pain. Pirate makes it plain.
Mummy’s numb. Mummy’s overcome.
A little frightened of the click
of Pirate’s paws and claws on windowglass.
How Pirate’s breath smells high and sweet like bitten meat.
Mummy is an architect, drawing blueprints for a heart.
Pirate is a gambler, betting hands and hands on old tin cans.
He’s a man. Precious as an artery.
Padding round the circles of the street.
Mummy’s got her face against the floorboards.