A social site for poets in Sydney.
He called me the blood rose,
as I danced in the Eastern style with a Persian singer,
in the back of the anarchist bookshop,
to the sweet steel strains of the dobro,
played by another man,
who asked me to go outside with him,
after telling me about the voices in his head.
I kept dancing and he called me the blood rose.
Everything else he said was in Spanish -
No comprendo amigo, feliz compleanos -
He had the mouth of a poet and the eyes of a madman,
and he called me the blood rose.
How could I not fall in love
even for just five minutes?
The petals of my skin are soft like the rose,
but you must break its thorns to touch me.
The petals of the rose are the colour of blood,
like my lips, like your fingertips,
torn and pricked, as you push
all the way to my heart.
I am the blood rose.