Hot Disappointment

Sullen pestilence gnaws tunnels through my foundations
like expanding cracks in pressurised glass.
I lose my symmetry.
Hot disappointment dances these
wrinkles between my eyebrows.
And I'll never again 
complain of boredom.
In this cell, I am the nucleus.

Echoes of my past bite my skin in all directions
to manipulate an exclusive existence
and tear me asunder.
Hot disappointment patronises and accuses,
my effort is insufficient;
I cannot duplicate myself
and this cell.
I must be one.

Existential sedatives delicately massage my
unrelenting questions into uneasy slumber,
and the stimulants release exhaust
in genius foghorn complaints.
Hot disappointment singes my jealousy
in the latest realisation that
the cure is better than any symptom anaesthetic
and the cure wants to talk,
always.

Beloved sorrow sharpens teeth and nails
at the parting of every friend,
pupils still sparking questions and answers
all pitifully unspoken.
Hot disappointment steels my voice
in the absence of confident articulation.
It is in the living and the speaking,
and the submitting that the cure
can be caught.

I know my deep needs are met in the cross.


Written May 2011

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