The Ophelia Syndrome

(the miss haversham scenario)

on the suburban stained mattress

of a semi-detached bed

her life from little girl to widow 

cut short 

comes to a spinster end

and all because he just had to find out

what taste was on natasha’s lips 

inhale her cunt’s hot glowing scent

and how well his cock would fit

inside natasha slut with golden hair

handmade tits 

and long long barbie legs 

(the duties of a bridesmaid)

i laid down on the reedy bed

next to the bride full of bubbly turpentine 

who shot her bridegroom down in flames 

and still in her meringue dress

wails behind the cobweb veil

waltz drunk and dribble wet

she curls up as if to die

(has there ever been such a thing

as a best man)

she didn’t mean anything

was his excuse for the broken things

like the broken scene 

from a glossy magazine

i had to scream at her

not to take this lying down

and so we waited for the river to flow

and the water to rush

garland carry us

on columbines rosemary pansies and rue

i offered her violets

but they withered

crestfallen by the wave that took us out to sea

(the bride rescued and set free)

© 2009 Charlotte De'Ath

first published by Slink Chunk 2014