Dispatches (from a de Clerambault’s patient)
I know I am censored, my printed devotion
Too unstable to meet your light
But the channel you opened, divine device
Keeps me awake at night
A twitching curtain, blazing beacons,
A pattern for me to translate
In pursuit of reply, as my cortex perspires
And my quill does immolate
You won’t let me finish my sentences
Incarcerated still
Straight jackets, padded walls, but you’re the scaffold to my form
I stand here edified
In the knowledge that some things are worth waiting for.
With the authority of de Clerambault’s patient
I write you this advice
Torture, abuse, but never deny,
You won’t live to do it twice
When you can’t distinguish a threat from a promise
I’ll feel I’ve made my mark
I still hold a nerve from this royal chamber,
Bricked up inside your heart.
SOME THINGS ARE WORTH WAITING FOR