Rivulets of such gravity
Haemoglobin cavities;
Blood falling thick as rain,
Thick as thieves disguised
In deepening red,
Plotting in clots
Through the depths of my bed.

This is where it all begins,
Mere oxygen,
Sheer hydrogen,
Globules in a stream,
A Nile along my forearm,
Neither white nor blue,
But red, and red, and red again.

The end of my existence
Will be the death of tea;
I donated blood today
And shared the leaves in me.

A Dose Of Gothic, Part 2

I looked at my pillow,
My pillow turned red;
I called a physician,
He said it’s your stress.
Your pillow was white
As a ghost in a bed,
If I’m not mistaken
Your ghost has since bled.
The ghost of your sanity,
Do not be misled,
She called out profanities
When shot on the bedspread;
Then the ghost of your pride
Who ate her own legs,
And the incumbent bride
Without any flesh
Or corporeal content
On shoulders so slender
Bereft of her head;
Is it no wonder
Your pillow is red.

I gripped the night-doctor,
Foreboding fuelled dread;
I shook him for sense
As he cut off the phone line,
My voice and mouth wed.
I washed the case for a week and a day;
The more I washed, the redder betrayed
Like a Sun on Blood Moon or
Bald eagle days, I lost myself
To a dark disarray. They found me,
The officers, odd notebooks in hand,
With the doctor beside me,
His gunsmoke criss-crossing
This smouldering land,
My blood turned to white,
My last soul unmanned.