Gethsemane Garden

[cornflake]

(in Reykjavik, evening, 22.10.07)

Gethsemane Garden
is a cheap-smelling hotel room
above a disappointing city by the ink sea.
In the anorexic bathroom
the shower drips. Cars push rivers on the tar.
Headlights cast the shadows of flags
momentarily on the gas station next door.

I wait for my life
in Gethsemane, two beds and a toilet stall.
Will it always be this way, too poor,
too dreamy to afford space to breathe?
Magnify my scars and mistakes in the cubicle light;
lie on the harsh orange of the bed or couch;
smoke in Sweden, crash trucks in the USA.

In this urban wilderness
I love this under-belly of straight roads,
too-new concrete, old vehicles, street signs,
far more than middle class well-to-do how-are-you.
Let me dive, let me destroy myself here
in Hella's metropolis; let my veins split,
my breath reek of booze, so I have
something to scrape up.

In my fantasies
I stand on street corners to hate my abusers.
Set out along the freeway on foot in stilettos:
I want dirt, cracked nails, Subway sandwich
for Christmas, backstage with hands on my tits,
free from any man's money; just
my body and I; I make Mum and Dad cry.

Wait for me,
Death, with your chess board and hood,
between the evil pools of neon from the lamp posts.
Let's get in that wreck and drive;
let's scream and fuck the world away
till kingdom come, or maybe it won't.
I dream of ruining everything
and clawing my way back. Don't wake,
shut up and sleep, let me run.


Hattie Samuel