Monday, July 16, 2012

Plath Noir

Plath Noir

“Your story.
My story.”
—Ted Hughes,
“Visit,” Birthday Letters

You detested me—
Your American rival

Your insatiable future—
My blindman’s bluff

You were the male lead—
In my miming melodrama

I was your puppet—
Tied up in your strings

I twitched like a dead frog—
When you touched me

Your fingers like electrodes—
Driving me simply crazy

You were unknown to me—
And you didn’t know me

Trying to find ourselves—
We were both totally lost

Ten years afterwards—
We meet in Birthday Letters

My version is slightly—
Different than yours though

The shock of your hatred—
Your love for Assia Weevil

My only alternate was—
The Unthinkable

Old despairs, new agonies—
Moving me into funeral hell

Suddenly I heard your—
Actual words on the phone

Your throat guttural—
Gagging on your anger

The silent house asked—
“When is he going to kill you?”

Around midnight—
Your tryst with Assia

Under the Yew tree—
St. Peter’s graveyard

That’s where you fucked her—
Beneath the gaunt church spire

I wanted to feel nothing—
But felt only the pulse of fear

I hid behind a gravestone—
Tilted in the moonlight

And when you felt the—
Urgent need to cum

Busting your nut—
Deep inside her pussy

That’s when I loomed—
Over you both making love

No book of printed words—
Can describe the look

The look of horror on your—
Helpless oozing manly face

Looking back over your—
Naked shoulder at me

Hearing the shotgun’s click—
As I pulled the deadly trigger

What else could you do—
Shooting your last wad?

Cocksure Yorkshire stud—
Distended face of lust

Both of you headless—
There under the Yew tree

Your body still cuming—
Her frog legs twitching

I buried you both—
Dead down Devon deep

Nobody in North Tawton—
Knew what really happened

Only the giant Yew tree—
Knew my black deadly secret

The Yew tree and me—
The Druid moon overhead

And when your pale—
Moon goddess glided above

Gazing down at your grave-
I heard you groaning down there

Popping your white knuckles—
Wishing you could get me

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