Spill

For now, I shall lower my crucifix down
into the well of your heart, fill myself
up with your paranoid colours and try
to lift what I can of you from the thick
scream of the wet turquoise

you spill

your slashing majesty stands in a mystified
trance, double-lost and framed in a furious love -
every raid of paint is a bodiless coat
warming what’s empty and alone
and again, I’ll try to lift you from the violence

you spill

because that is not a chair nor is it
a throne. No metaphor can contain
it, or delineate the thing it once held -
a monster of god, a sod, a weight of evil
fornicating with the womb of all suffering

you spill

shoeless and forlorn, the hope of
hearts cannot save what is clinically dead.
Tell me his name, the one who emptied
you, your home and back, and I shall do
what needs to be done, nail him to the flaps

you spill

Spill

but if only I could see you properly, if only
you were more apparent in this than him,
I would have no need for this crucifix
or this lowering, these expressions should be
red and sublime like the voice of running blood

you spill

as you dissolve, evaporate into the luminous cut,
the fall, your name, a child, my heart among such strange
symbols of wretchedness, we are left to hold one another -
a demon god falling into us both like coprolitic rain
burying everything

you spill

everything

I'm supposed to touch.