AUSTRALIA

g.langford@uws.edu.au

YOU ARE THE SNAKE

Once I defined you as an allegory,
not anymore. Now I'm used
to roughness appearing soft as babyskin,
and you, Snake, winding through our bodies,
smirking at the breakdown of organs,
while I lose the power, that sweet power
to outlast you, wading through swamp,
unaware you're gathering behind me,
multiple skins and colours, then the hiss.
You don't have to know what Snake says
to know what Snake means,
particularly fatal when trust me floats out,
the relentless blue of hope.
Snake uses love as venom,
cutting you out of photographs;
you wonder who you are,
praying you'll wake up, as you do,
only to find Snake in your bed,
tongue licking you dry,
smoother than a banker's lie.
Snake calls you a friendly skeleton,
eating you to the bone.
At meetings you look abandoned,
clothes loose, purchased by someone else.
In the end you cannot smile,
only Snake does, tongue long,
giggling around the eyes.
You're mine, says Snake,
whose laughter lingers long.

SNAKE ON THE RISE

Snake rises when you least expect it,
sexless, yet often seen as sensual
in the succour of taste,
covering you in blanket clothes-
note how the eyes glitter.

Were you ever a snake?

Did you learn to use your tongue as a weapon?
Were you fanged in luminescent orgies for blood,
dancing to the rattle of prey,
the bask of sunlight,
then the heads of all hunters,
fanging them before you were shot?

Did you live in deserts,
believing you'd never need water?
Or did you prefer city basements,
hiding and waiting, feared by rats -
such a brief food -
for a child to come down?
You licked your tongue and prayed.

Snake knows all this,
selecting the moment of revelation,
near the cross of the insurmountable,
the husky breath of death.

© All Copyright, Gary Langford.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.