The Blackness Coming by David Mac

Open up the hole
and
pour in the blackness.

The blackness comes,
and when it comes

it crawls,
it climbs in,
it collects,
it festers and
grows.

Watch it,
ask it.
Hear its song.

Sometimes the
blackness is
welcome.

Sometimes it
smells like
flowers.

Sometimes we
wallow with it
deep
way down
up to our dirty necks.

It oozes heavy,
smiling,
choking us.

The blackness is
colossal, it’s a
thick swollen
mean thing;

it’s urgent,
relentless,
unstoppable;

on our bones,
shadows and oil,
empty, desolate,
endless and dark;

and you can’t scrub it
away, you
can’t bare to
banish it for good.

You love your
blackness.

But when it does go
you’re sadder
than
ever.

It listened to you.
It was the only one.
It kissed you. It
understood.

Your perfect blackness,
the visitor inside.
The only thing.
Ah…

Do you feel it move or
stretch across
the room?

You bet you can.

So you roll over
and call out:

‘You coming
back to
bed, baby?’

‘Don’t worry’
it nods ‘I’m
going
nowhere.’

Author bio:

David Mac has appeared, or is appearing, in Ambit, Mud Luscious, various Monkey Kettle, erbacce, a couple of poetry anthologies by United Press, This Zine Will Change Your Life, as well as half a dozen Clockwise Cats.