Drunken Bellarmie

         After Renee So


In this spirit of affliction I beheld two tings,

that shame is also revelry, and a body

is a spillage, or an addiction.  I do not know

if this thing belongs to me, tipped-up set of weights

that promises, but never delivers, equilibrium.

I cannot make manifest this collection of feelings,

but look at me: I want to be loved for the wrong reasons

I mean I want to be hated for the right reasons.

I have been lonely. Every time I say the word ‘I’

I am ashamed.  When I say ‘I want’ I am triply

ashamed.  I want my shame to be a kind of proof

that deduces the world, and that’s the worst

shame of all.  I have been theatrical, entropic,

parting with myself for company.  This heartsore

will not stop weeping and look, the sky is sick,

knitted too tightly; my face is up your sleeve

like a card trick.  DON’T LOVE ME: I am guilty,

fatalistic and sticky round the mouth like a dirty baby.

I am a shitting, leaking, bloody clump of cells

raw, murky and fluorescent, you couldn’t take it.


Emily Berry


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