Poem in which I gouge out his eyes with a soup spoon

A glorious Morticia,
my lips a study
in sense of occasion.
I spread my off-
white body above him,
soft as mosquito netting.

Chemically treated,
abundantly cunning.
I do not brandish,
but grasp like a nettle.
I want to cut him
as a diamond cuts glass;
bounce his head
off every curb
from Bogside to Brixton.

But there is a better idea,
an etiquette of scraping.
The spoon is sanitary and deaf,
spaghetti-western-silver.

He lolls in lotus-eating cosh.
My punches do not wake him.
Green-fingered as a gardener,
I begin my ministrations.

It isn’t that I hate him.
But God,
that ornamental pedantry!
That Magdalen drawl!
That fish-eating sneer!
Can I really not tell
demitasse from parfait?

And how he made
making love
an act of gap-year heroism;
a fatuous Samaritan,
who condescends to fuck me.

I grew tired of being patronised;
dispensing hand-wash mercies
for the dry-clean only care
of his Old Etonian ego.

A glorious Morticia,
I draw on gloves like a sawbones.
And with barbarian gusto
I scooped to conquer, smiling.

Fran Lock

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One comment

  1. The Emotional Orphan · January 30, 2013

    A Glorious Morticia indeed… I am moved by this, and particularly the last two lines of ech sanza. The seem to slap-clap shut each , launching into the next. How I love your work Fran…

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