Tell me you love me,
I hate you, I do.
Your speech, magniloquent,
as you tell me I’m wrong.
Say it again,
say it slow.
Maybe if you sound it out,
Hear me curse you,
hear me scream.
A magician of excuses,
pull them out your sleeve.
But lie there, do nothing
whilst I cry.
Do you like your tower?
Think of me,
once in a blue moon.
just for a day or two.
Hold me tighter at 3am,
kiss me in your sleep.
Tell me you love me,
I love you too.
I always really liked Alvheid.
She had the prettiest hair of all the Norwegians I knew
And the sweetest voice.
Which is how I recognised it screaming one day,
When I rang up my boyfriend to say hello
And upon her muffled cries for help, he said:
‘Now’s not a good time babe, can I call you back?’
Murdering Norwegian girls just wasn’t like him
(Yet at the same time it made perfect sense),
So I decided to go to his house and sort this mess out
Once and for all.
When I walked inside there was blood everywhere.
It dripped from the walls and it went all over my new shirt
When he hugged me and kissed me hello,
‘What a nice surprise to see you here!’
Apart from the blood, which he said was paint,
(Seems legit, right?)
There was no evidence to suggest Alvheid was ever there
So we sat down to breakfast and he asked what I’d done today.
When I told him I had rang him and thought I heard him murdering Alvheid,
His expression turned menacing and his voice low and gruff.
He swapped his cereal for an axe, shouting ‘You better run babe!’
As I ran through the streets, trying to escape
I blamed myself, naturally.
‘Why didn’t I see this coming?’
‘This is so typical of him.’
The first time I saw them, they were folded neatly by the door, concealed in plastic
Thick jumpers, heavy eyelids and clouds of smoke keeping us warm.
He wore them for the first time, sliding his legs apart and staring boldly into space
They took it in turns to beat him up and he wiped the blood on his trousers
The next time I saw them they were crumpled on his floor at his grungy little flat.
The walls were mouldy and it smelt like smoke and old food.
We stubbed out cigarettes on plates of food and sat in silence
They slid tabs under their lips whilst I slid into the pyjamas
I wore them sprawled out in the mud, clutching a bottle of wine
I wore them curled up in somebody else’s bed, tears threatening me
I wore them when I clawed at your skin and told you how much I love you
I wore them, Sam’s muddy, bloody, pyjamas.
The clinking of wine glasses echoing miserably in the air
Restaurant noises that will ring in my ears long after you’re gone
Red lipstick stained teeth gasping to be released from their chapped lip prisons
I hold on for dear life to the hand underneath my table
Although, I’m not really sure whose it is anymore.
Finally the waiter arrives, placing down plates of human flesh
Rubbery skin with pimples and pores stares up at me
The sockets and nostrils and mouth have been stuffed with basil
But the eyebrows haven’t even been removed!
The hand under the table lets go to pour sugar on his face like a pancake.
Casey turns to me and whispers, oh so gently,
‘Are you going to eat that?’
Inspired by your beauty,
effulgent, he said.
You may have
made his heart expand,
and grow a bulge in it,
but it was his cold,
which broke it’s chest
How beautiful his tongue,
yet they called him
William the bloody
because of his bloody awful poetry.