He had me at Wifeshaped

“Let me

call you

longest loved, 

supremely cherished.

Wifeshaped will be your name.
I will slay those old dragoons

that bedevil your days

and diminish the rest.

Standing strong-soldier

Husbandshaped I,

ever vigilant over your slumber.

Daring even dreams

 to worry at your frayed edge.”

He had me at wifeshaped…

& It was enough

to fetter this runaway bride

For a few months of moments at least.

tho frankly, most days 

I must admit
I did not trust his maestro’s mouth,
let alone the legends

sewn expertly to his extravagant skull.

I knew better, and yet

by the gaslight

he displayed

a surreal métier

to zero in and elsewhere

of my ability
to keep my mouth shut.

I was myself un-mired a moment

In ugly external reverberations

that in turn

Justified

all manner of marital miseries.

See here

My bodybrain's perilous promenade

As It Sucks me down and under.
Into that wretched Id-egospace 

that seeks to nurture my nightmare steeple chase.

mindlessly muncha crunching me 

up with memories

I'd rather do without.

See here

How his mouth has molded,

is moldered…

molding…

my air

(doesn’t he know that I am allergic?)

How he Nonchalant, declares

into dam-ned actuality

the fast-senseless nonlinear Fears I feed

that drive me oh so viciously

still un-bested

by my best yet.

Still untested

By my death yet.

See here

how his aspect 

imperfectly conceals

a countless portion

of counseled commentary

on the unsummoned angry recitals

leaking open-air out of me

In my brainbody’s betrayal.

then

By fresh gaslight

he reveals to me

that I am found

untrustworthy

in the gifts of love 

Demonstrating how I damn, damage and drain 

in my dancing pain

(he says it all with such credible concern

yet seems to revel at my weakest links.)

he’s Digging up

my shamed shards now

to parade as exhibits a to zed

before a court of none 

but the one

who shares my bed.

What crime is mine,

am I really alive too loud?

See here,
tho he provided
far less than I knew I’d need
how a starving woman
does not quibble over crumbs
nor will risk the trade
of that certain slow famine
For the un-quantified measure
lingering intangible
Behind every turn of phrase.
he was, after all

everything
I never knew
I could live without
anyway...

See here then

How drunken assumption

Crafts wretched dream.

How in half light

I bite my wrist

and silent stitch

a scream

While on my back unbidden, 

my dashing demon dances

(mustn’t wake the family)

I slip sinking 

into stinking 

solopsism.

had I deliberated

A little more 
long before
a score or four
of his poorly shaped promises

my wry recollection

would have pierced more readily
such carefully conceived devices.

For In those pierced,
now rifts 

revealed
from out my lips 

now freshly peeled
in between penetrable pauses prosing

I,

covet

the cryptic phantoms of former-day dances

piled high precious
in their near forgotten glances

wispy rhythms woven bright 
the plentiful gifts 
of anonymous ships

that passed painlessly 
in the night. 

e.holloway 2018