The Cherry Drop (La Houle Rouge Cerise)
You sometimes appear inside my head.
I made you up; I carry you around in my iris
A ruby sun-spot, a freckle of blood.
Somedays you ride on my shoulder-
Today your shoulder is slung back,
In a take-it-or-leave-it, I-shouldn't-be-here,
I-belong-at-Camden-Pier
Sort of way,
In your bomber jacket, I remember it well
With the white cuffs stained with an odd yellow tinge
Of Nicotine. You don't look your best.
Either side of your powdered nose is a
Rose-coloured sore and, although turned-up
And lovely, is sporting a rather ugly
Silver bull ring,
Like I could clip on a leash and tow you home
Trailing that hair-o that hair!
An autumn viel I'd torture for,
Even when it's greasy and hangs,
Upside down and limp as a dead fruit fly;
Tucked in spiralled spaghetti strands
Behind two pixie ears, glittering with cheap platinum
That turns your lobes and knuckles green.
A cigarette hangs between two fingers
I wonder how many different faces those fingers have touched,
Myself included. I never thought smoking was glamarous before, I didn't
Like the smell but now, two days later,
I can still detect your scent on me.
I breathe it in
Your sickly perfume of chemicals that kill, too much Poison to mask it from your parents.
O their Holy Daughter, their moving doll!
My haemorrhage, my red waterdroplet, my bottle of crimson fizz,
My cherry tartlet, my Kentish town pie.
Do they know what they have sculpted, do they know
That when you lean forward to stagger childishly into an embrace,
The swallow-shaped neckline of that black scrap you call a dress
Plummets and exhibits
The princess skin of your sternum;
An arrow and ribbon of knotted scarlet lace and tulle;
Threaded with prim velour roses and shot through with black pearls.
O my deep pink flush, I know the truth but I'll still carry on the same.
From the scuffed beige soles of your boots to a set of bumpy Pandora knees,
It's still some sort of hero worship;
It's still you, isn't it, after all these tales and one sighting.
I thought it was you, wearing blue and gold
In the twilight of that foreign land, I couldn't quite focus.
I commented about your favourite things but it didn't work-
Why do I do it the wrong way?
Who could say? You look so rapt, and the silver seemed fresh;
Other days you were apathetic, in his shirts and hotpants;
Hats and sunglasses, swinging handbags I'd thought you'd rather die
Than use. You were a queen!
I expected your voice to be softer;
Your skin to be purer; your lope to be more graceful.
Instead you hang on the corner,
Shifting your legs, flicking your ash-
You're on fire, burning all over,
Just like Paree (sacre bleu! J'adore bottes rouge!) I save my dreams, counting them like every light;
Every fleck of gold leaf,
Each stitch and silk thread;
Every step up to the Eiffel Tower and I wait;
I watch every Bristol farmland pass and then I'm there, I can taste it,
I can feel the language ooze onto my tongue
And I set my jaw and when my lips part-
No words come out.
There is just air and it is huffed away with rejection, disappointment.
Paris isn't meant to be so normal;
It's not meant to shrug off my expectations.
Paris doesn't have boyfriends who spell badly across numb bullets
Or stake a claim in flowerbeds and duckponds;
Paris doesn't burn holes in its clothes and use it like a label
Or be just so wonderful for one person and so terrible for another.
Paris isn't a 4th of July rocket.
I have you clasped in my palms-I actually have you!-but your fuse
Is wired and you spring away, raining on me
Littering me with red stars, raging and tearful and falling in love;
Splitting my rational side and banging
At the drums in my head. You sing along.
Howl! She-wolf scream through my veins
With russet fur, drinking up my young blood-
Tigeress, sashaying in red,
To Franklin's homecoming chant,
Tapping through my stream.
Every broken heart in me, whipped up
Into your hurricane.
Every person who deserved more, everyone
Who didn't give me enough.
Every fallen hero.
Still, it might be courageous of you; comedic and beautiful
If, for me, you discover your tongue of scarlet plasma and try harder.
We could try over.
You can take me out again next week and we might make a miracle of it.
I made you up; I carry you around in my iris
A ruby sun-spot, a freckle of blood.
Somedays you ride on my shoulder-
Today your shoulder is slung back,
In a take-it-or-leave-it, I-shouldn't-be-here,
I-belong-at-Camden-Pier
Sort of way,
In your bomber jacket, I remember it well
With the white cuffs stained with an odd yellow tinge
Of Nicotine. You don't look your best.
Either side of your powdered nose is a
Rose-coloured sore and, although turned-up
And lovely, is sporting a rather ugly
Silver bull ring,
Like I could clip on a leash and tow you home
Trailing that hair-o that hair!
An autumn viel I'd torture for,
Even when it's greasy and hangs,
Upside down and limp as a dead fruit fly;
Tucked in spiralled spaghetti strands
Behind two pixie ears, glittering with cheap platinum
That turns your lobes and knuckles green.
A cigarette hangs between two fingers
I wonder how many different faces those fingers have touched,
Myself included. I never thought smoking was glamarous before, I didn't
Like the smell but now, two days later,
I can still detect your scent on me.
I breathe it in
Your sickly perfume of chemicals that kill, too much Poison to mask it from your parents.
O their Holy Daughter, their moving doll!
My haemorrhage, my red waterdroplet, my bottle of crimson fizz,
My cherry tartlet, my Kentish town pie.
Do they know what they have sculpted, do they know
That when you lean forward to stagger childishly into an embrace,
The swallow-shaped neckline of that black scrap you call a dress
Plummets and exhibits
The princess skin of your sternum;
An arrow and ribbon of knotted scarlet lace and tulle;
Threaded with prim velour roses and shot through with black pearls.
O my deep pink flush, I know the truth but I'll still carry on the same.
From the scuffed beige soles of your boots to a set of bumpy Pandora knees,
It's still some sort of hero worship;
It's still you, isn't it, after all these tales and one sighting.
I thought it was you, wearing blue and gold
In the twilight of that foreign land, I couldn't quite focus.
I commented about your favourite things but it didn't work-
Why do I do it the wrong way?
Who could say? You look so rapt, and the silver seemed fresh;
Other days you were apathetic, in his shirts and hotpants;
Hats and sunglasses, swinging handbags I'd thought you'd rather die
Than use. You were a queen!
I expected your voice to be softer;
Your skin to be purer; your lope to be more graceful.
Instead you hang on the corner,
Shifting your legs, flicking your ash-
You're on fire, burning all over,
Just like Paree (sacre bleu! J'adore bottes rouge!) I save my dreams, counting them like every light;
Every fleck of gold leaf,
Each stitch and silk thread;
Every step up to the Eiffel Tower and I wait;
I watch every Bristol farmland pass and then I'm there, I can taste it,
I can feel the language ooze onto my tongue
And I set my jaw and when my lips part-
No words come out.
There is just air and it is huffed away with rejection, disappointment.
Paris isn't meant to be so normal;
It's not meant to shrug off my expectations.
Paris doesn't have boyfriends who spell badly across numb bullets
Or stake a claim in flowerbeds and duckponds;
Paris doesn't burn holes in its clothes and use it like a label
Or be just so wonderful for one person and so terrible for another.
Paris isn't a 4th of July rocket.
I have you clasped in my palms-I actually have you!-but your fuse
Is wired and you spring away, raining on me
Littering me with red stars, raging and tearful and falling in love;
Splitting my rational side and banging
At the drums in my head. You sing along.
Howl! She-wolf scream through my veins
With russet fur, drinking up my young blood-
Tigeress, sashaying in red,
To Franklin's homecoming chant,
Tapping through my stream.
Every broken heart in me, whipped up
Into your hurricane.
Every person who deserved more, everyone
Who didn't give me enough.
Every fallen hero.
Still, it might be courageous of you; comedic and beautiful
If, for me, you discover your tongue of scarlet plasma and try harder.
We could try over.
You can take me out again next week and we might make a miracle of it.