Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close

Before the empty box the world made sense
For you and me
An empty box to keep… things… in.
Followed by months of empty words,
Shut out of your head and no,
No communication possible
Only backwards to a past with
No answer to your question.

Then an act of courage/desperation,
You come into the closet and between
A scrap of paper and the pieces of
The blue vase you find the key to
Your little broken soul.
A key, you think, to join it back together,
To bring time to a halt before – …
We needed that empty box.

You try one lock, another, ask
The locksmith, the divorcee,
The horse people, the praying people,
The silent people, so many different people,
With many different truths and many
Different boxes (some full, some empty).

You turn the key in someone else’s lock
To open someone else’s box…
Empty… too much to keep in,
So you shout it out, your rage and hurt,
Finally communicating, sharing, back
Safe with me.

I keep finding keys in the curiousest places now.
I keep them all – in a box without a lock.
And I have started again to believe in –
Maybe not six but… some of those
Impossible things before breakfast.

© jsmorgane (Feb 2012)

The Woman in Black

A mansion, saluting neglect,
Brazen against the tides of time.
A barren place to bring back
To life again, light behind shutters
Flung open wide again.
The marshes a vast expanse,
Open space uncivilised, wildlife,
Bird-watching, there, from the gable window.

Darkness, shadows, sounds and noises,
Creeping movement, steps and stories
Told by one and all but altered over time,
Calling back to when the tides, the marshes,
The space between the isle and land
Had powers of their own, and called
For sacrifice when any dared to trespass.

One room, frozen in time,
An empty bed and pillows plumped,
Untouched, unused, unloved, forgotten.
Or nearly so. The silent lookers-on,
Wind-up toys, the monkey with his fiddle,
Wasn’t that the dog, playing cymbals
And clowns grinning, bears nodding crazily,
The music box and rocking horse.
No, chopping, rocking, chair.

And this is where she wants you.
In the deserted nursery,
No other place so desolate,
Depleted and devoid of
Any purpose when vacated,
Left, moved out, moved on,
Beyond, the little ones.

The toys, given voice
In a mad circus symphony they tell
What they have seen, have known,
See now behind your back.
The rocking chair, chopchop,
Stopped. Occupied,
So easily imagined,
By one now without purpose
But searching, foraging the past for
Consolation, harvesting…

© jsmorgane (Feb 2012)


I consume people, one after the other.
I run my fingers through their long blond hair,
And dye it black after I have chopped it short.
I let my eyes dwell on their high brow,
And penetrate the Sacred with my gaze.
I dive into blue eyes,
And ripple their clear, still surface.
I outline straight noses,
And expose their striving pride.
I rest my heavy hands against the cheek bones,
And bruise the soft skin.
I kiss your lips,
And bite them bloody to match mine.
I caress your fingers, one by one,
And drain them of their delicate strength.
I draw dark lines in your tender balms,
And read no future.
I tie your long and well-shaped legs,
To stop the carefree gait.
I twist your white neck
Because I cannot bear its beauty.
And when your body opens to my touch
I absorb your essence, lead you out
And ensure your extinction,
Before I move on.

© jsmorgane (winter 2004)