I called her my rose of emptiness

For she was shallow, trite and young.

She bore the brunt of all my rage,

And took the scornful curses of my tongue.

I beat her virgin ideals as if chaff of grain

And mocked with bitter tongue her looks of shame.

The seasons passed. I tore her off a strip

With insults of sadistic kind.

And once I hit her face and broke her lip.

No matter, she a docile thing,

Pretended that she loved me,

Told of stars that flickered in my eyes

And moon-thin crescents white upon my lips,

And all that clichéd rot – romance’s muck!

I nearly sold her honour to my lust.

She cried too much and turned delight to dust.

And then one morning, no, one afternoon,

When I had torn her bra and she had cried,

She claimed that she could see a bloody moon

<a href="" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>

And fermentation in the lurching stars.

Her eyes were weird, encircled by dense tars.

She cried a lot and sang some silly tune.

<a href="" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>

Of course I left her there. What! Was she mad?

Of course I left her there, and then one morning,

Some time later, reading in the papers, saw:

“Girl drowned and found upon the Thames’ muddy floor.”

Her name was there in dark, black, mud-streaked capitals.

I laughed and felt a little weak.

That bitch had done it all, and ruined day and week.

I called her my rose of emptiness,

Never having known the pollen there.

I called her my rose of emptiness,

Never having loved her scented air.


What do you think?

Written by Jonathan Finch


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