by John Grey
It's that fated three in the morning
with the ghost of Gigolette
thrumming like wind through windows
in my crumbling manor house of dreams
that doesn't just echo
but bellows with the wretched past.
I do not want to see the blood—
gouge of the knife through white linen.
Horror of all hearts,
I do not want to see it—
I will shutter my quaking eyes.
It is three a.m. by all the clocks.
It is three a.m. in my trembling hands.
My memory is wise
to screams and wails
but it demands a perfect whiteness,
not these crimson splotches,
partly death and partly dying,
sated with earth's wormy soil,
dripped all over my sickness.
Tell the moon to take you,
or all the hags and witches of the ancient world.
The dark's wide open.
Go through— go through.
I know already how the stabbings burn.
Leave me alone.
Go warn the ones who have not killed yet.
John Grey is an Australian
poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review,
and the Round Table. Latest books, Leaves on Pages, and Memory
Outside the Head, are available through Amazon.
Originally from Bronx, New York, Jack Real works as a plumber
in New Jersey. When he’s not snaking pipes, he likes to have a few beers and listen
to Classic Rock with his childhood friend, fellow Yellow Mama artist Jack Pepper.