Caroline

Caroline says that the lights
don’t burn and that this could be delight, we
just have to turn her on. And
she could be drinking apple juice; and
she could be drinking whiskey – she tore
the labels off the bottles long ago in this windowless
house she calls a home. And Caroline says
that the timepiece on the wall will be correct
in just a little bit – the clockwork cockerel
disturbs the morning air.

And I hope she will be perfect,
and I hope she will be mine.
I hope that she gets better
but who the hell am I?

Caroline lives on mattresses and
vinyl tunes, her throat screams for
mercy and a little less in time. But the
master is waiting and he’s less than patient,
she looks at me with despair and does what
he commands. The wooden train squeaks with
guilty sex – the screams fill the night
and the semen drips off the pier. And passersby
ignore the sounds of distress – it’s unconventional
and destructive, the backwards sounds of ‘09.

And I loved you first, I loved you the worst –
the light was dim, and I’d tried for life.
But the air was heavy and the alcoholic sick,
there was no way of knowing how

this would end. And it was raining one day and
I knew I was safe, but you made the most of a
rainy day and I was blue and black and red
and choking. And Caroline says it was down
to immaturity – but all immaturity is gone as
the power-play climaxes. My eyes take in death
and freedom, and I pretend I’m moving on.
But the worms eat away at you and you’re
still alive. The mascara fades and
I can see your soul.

And she told me she’d be gentle
and she told me she was pure.
I told her to get better, that
this love was out of time.