By Flo Fitzpatrick
Hush, keep your mouth bound
If you wish,
Though I gauge that all you want is
To submerge my mind in Tuesday,
‘66,
And the heat and oh the heat of
Maggie’s House beneath the waning
Sun, the bodies and the bodies;
The ionic lattice, making
Up for it,
For each ray that softly dwindled,
Flickering anew behind your
Eyes, as does the sky the night the
Band took the whole crowd outside, and
The amp’s hiss
Still crackles in your tinnitus,
And maybe it still dances there,
On your tongue,
Wouldn’t it be sweet to taste and
Thence to bottle it and pour it
In my ear?
As you might the vials of rage and
Ecstasy that pulsed across your
Chest after the supermarket
Pinot noir, the antidote to
His foul shows,
And his incompetence and oh
His fecklessness remain within
The casket of propriety
Of simple shame
And when you look at me like we
Were playing cards, I wonder if
You want my veins to feel this fire
And heat, maybe it still lingers
On your lips,
But your lips remain epoxy
Tight, yes, granted, keep your mouth bound
If you wish.
Flo Fitzpatrick is an amateur writer from East Yorkshire, England. She enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction; one of her short stories was published on the online magazine ‘Flash Fiction North’.
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