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Friday, 24 May 2013

TMA 05 - Tuesday's Child

TMA05's sestina tells of a relationship broken by internet misuse. Betrayal and isolation become further complicated when a child enters the equation. The female reminisces before venting her anger ...


Tuesday’s Child

 

‘Excuse me please!’ my wheelchair whizzing past

and riding roughshod into this new start;

your pupils soft and green, such spunky pulse

between the two excites my innocence.

Unlike before; no down-the-nose contempt

from you; instead, desire I thought long dead.

 

My lust was far from that; oh I was dead,

dead sure that you were not about to pass

me by; the thought just filled me with contempt

but fingers linked we jumped into the start

we could not stop, those not-so-innocent

exciting days, when flesh would sear and pulse.

 

In time I’d fear, coiled tight in dark repulse

with nightclothes stained; my lover left, he’s dead

and gone, you see? So much for innocence,

he’s tossed it on the embers of the past

and pissed all over our familiar start.

You shit. Why did you breed with this contempt?

 

Guess what? He held you in the same contempt,

‘Why won’t you bloody talk?’ he’d say; repulsed,

that’s why … repulsed from its malignant start

to shocking end; destroyed and left for dead

my sweetest dreams, consigned to bitter past,    

before his days of webcam-fuelled pretence.

                                                        

No thought of me; my love, my innocence,

just self-abuse online ‘til caught; contempt

arrived at nine o’clock; hands moving fast.

Ashamed to cry for you, for us … my pulse

lies too; it tries to stir, to race, lies dead

and hides its pained, confused desire to start.

 

Amongst this bile appeared a brand new start;

his smile does what yours did; my inner sense

just knows I’d die for him, not you I dread

to say … you had your chance; so don’t attempt,

not now, to win me back or find that pulse,

it’s gone. You changed our lives, you’re now my past.

 

That Tuesday past, so cruel my innocence,

your startled face still locked in my contempt.

My pulse lives on with him; to me, you’re dead.
 
 
 
 
THIS PIECE RECEIVED A MARK OF 80%.
 
 
© Nigel Pamenter 2013
The right of Nigel Pamenter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.