O Marks The Spot
I press my porcelain skin against the bath,
and turn the limescale tap, lie back
the tide rises and my buttocks slip,
glide upon the film and slide,
from smooth perfect hardness of your face.
It slips, a slap, my hips sag
as bleached skin scalds, my pelvis
jags through waves. Like limestone stacks eroded
to a rock-pool, my diaphragm depresses
lifts then strands the tide
falls, two tributaries whirl across my stomach;
meandering violent words
collide, into a sinkhole abandoned
where a line of moss grows up
into the O, marks the spot where
purple petrol gold floats.
The scar of appendectomy that holds
a flammable puddle of dissolved
acid fumes, hydrochloric vented plumes
I breathe, fire.
I breathe, fire.
Matthew Bevington is an English student at Ruskin College Oxford studying Creative Writing & Critical Practice. He also writes as a music journalist and his poetry is due to be published on Eunoia Review.