On Adonis

Punched with
one butterfly kiss
on the left,

the crack
in the air,

a split appearing
on the translucent ice…

Tiny pebbles
that roll off the track
and make a lovely home
on the crescent:

turquoise beads
strung, then
all over
winter’s wasteland.

Oi, you –

Tell me.
Did she
do this out of
sheer spite?

Raven strands,
some salient touch
of charitable Zeus

could hold
this entire land
with the embers
contained within –

Would they
singe my fingers,

or tickle my nose
if I held them
gently like this?

The cruel ridge
that sways towards
the direction
of the lonely,
departed boat
for the Thames,

casting me aside,

merely a wanderer
to the precipice –

Ah! My poor knees!

You have
no concern
for the state
of my limbs!

silly, silly boy.

I would have
gladly given you
the sky,

if you had simply asked –

Why resort
to devastating
Aphrodite’s altar

with these
putrid roses
clutched in
your trembling hands?

© Zelda Reville

Backstory: I was incredibly excited about the news of Brett Anderson’ memoir being actualized into a tangible object, until I found out that a part of it was going to be about Justine Frischmann, his ex-flame. Fine. I understand that she’s been a big part of his life pre-Suede, but it’s honestly disappointing since his lyrical writing is amazing and it seems  like a waste to use this opportunity to talk about a girl.  Justine, for her merits, has her own talents too (one of the few females in the male-dominated Britpop scene, fantastic debut album) but the Britpop music era was more *shudder* than oomph with all those silly squabbles stemming back to Justine and Oasis somehow lumbering their way to the top. Nobody needs to dredge that past up. It would have been even better to hear him talk about his bohemian childhood influences name-dropped in interviews over the years.



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