Masked Ball

Your knees are dirty from praying for a flood
Is there food in your beard; music in your ears
White nuts in your hands; your bedroom stinks of sex
They’re for the squirrels
The deep breaths and dirty laundry
Picking blackberries and buying Morley’s
Are you disgusted with life?
Or infatuated with its fragility
Fascinated by the inevitability of its end
Why are you bitter?
I drink too much liquor
I drink too much
I kiss you too much
Or too little, what’s the difference
What’s the reason; you hold the door open for me
It’s none of your business
It’s part of the story, it’s a priori
But you’re not my priority
It wasn’t your christening
He’s your baptism, your fire
Food for thought when you retire
Just food, then thought, or sleep
You just think you think
But you would rather die than do so
Sleeping on your back, watching as the walls get mouldy
It’s raining Amelia, Cecilia, Ophelia
It’s raining
I would rather die than think
That’s why I forgot your name, and your birthday
Our wedding day
It’ll be better in another life
Sleeping on my back, watching as the walls of my pillow fort fall
It should be your church, waiting for the virgin born at a Sunday mass masked ball
She’s your prophet, hanging on the cross
Walking on the river Jordan and standing at the altar
Just to take a picture of your reflection in the water

By Seb Lloyd

Writer, South London

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