Black stories 

Left the socks with its pink toes on
When I took off the rest before you,
As I lay spent beside my fake blue plastic phallus and half-folded origami stars
Your shadow sits quietly on the edge of the bed
Before disappearing with a blip
On my black mirror screen.

My oversized T-shirt hides the bruises
From where you pierced into my heart
Inconsiderate, relentless the man
Inside you is a conquerer,
A taker
And I soften like a flower,

The clock ticked, waiting, I turned from a storyteller with brown hair
To a brown frog stuck on the same street
Watching a sad world on repeat
I had a new story to tell.

There are whispers of a new boy
On the end of the street,

With his hair plastered like
Black velvet on his funny little head
Eyes shiny,
Magpies stalk him, waiting
To steal them,
Flapping overhead, shadowy spies
From the land of the wicked witch

He is the unlikely hero, thrust at the end of the road
Slipping on a bar of soap
To die naked, withered and
His head split open like a melon
And out comes running
From the cracked skull
Untapped magick.

I befriended him, under the guise of a harmless brown frog
Gifted him a navy blue tie
And a porcelain doll who
Kissed him at sunset
And when the world was orange,
Before he died, or
Before he became a hero
For a second he was a poem
Being kissed by a porcelain doll I had spun in my wheel of fate.

When he lay on the cold bathroom floor
His brain weeping blood
And magic
The magpie came to steal his eyes
But the shine was gone
With his spirit.

The witch, long coveteous made a deal
With the withered frog and the
Porcelain doll he had brought to life
That if the boy gave up his eyes
He would be restored back to life.

I brought out the ouja board,
Sang the first three chords of an Icelandic song
And his soul appeared, transparent almost
The porcelain doll began to cry

So I asked him, would you give up
Your eyes for your life?
His answer changed the foundations
Made his hair grow white
His eyes dimmed, slowly slowly he came back to life.

He was the new kid on the block no longer,
And his soul was chained to his back with silver threads,
The porcelain was cracked, black,
And I, the frog,
Was blind and deaf.

The witch at the end of the world has his heart on a leash
What can a poor brown frog do,
Against the December goddess of death?

So I watch him slog endlessly,
Heartlessly singing offkey
A slow Icelandic hymn, while his blind eyes grope for the keys.

In the corner, a porcelain doll
Sits gathering dust,
The sunset is no longer blue and orange,
The smile is covered with rust.


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