| POEMS: 180309 - March 18th, 2009 |
http://groups.google.com |
| Robert Morpheal, Bob Ezergailis, Morphealism (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2009/03/18 23:18 |
180309A
-----------
Blow my mind,
and you win the last prize.
No one has won anything yet,
and everyone has to pay to play.
In this carnival
I am the barker, and I am the freak.
I am the serpent,
you are Eve, and you are the apple.
--------------------------------------------
180309B
-----------
Teased away limbs
litter the sands of the beach.
A few of them look like amputations,
while most appear violently torn.
Layers of vegetative flesh peeling away,
exposing bone smooth surfaces underneath.
A cluster of broken feathers
poses as an abandoned headdress.
There are no fish bones,
and the chill waters are clear and dead.
-----------------------------------------------
180309C
-----------
I would wrap your delicate white skin
in tissue thin layers of rusted metal,
until it looks like a Cuban cigar.
The end is a smokestack gasping mouth,
and the more that my lips suck on your sex
the more utterance of clouds appears high on above.
There was still something to be said
about the similarities between rust and human flesh
that had never been proven or said before.
Tetanic spasms take the place of orgasms,
causing violent convulsions of the whole body,
throughout all of its now rigidly erectile organs.
The spasms slow to the steady jerking movement,
of a second hand, continuing its paralytic crawl
dragging across a Roman numbered clock face.
Spear tips secured under a crystal watch glass,
where it is falsely believed they can do no harm,
pointing at quickly slaughtered numbers.
I would carve the clockwork mechanism
out from where it is hidden beneath your breast,
so I can place it on a shelf with other curiosities.
I would stitch up the wound and lick the blood,
causing the wound and threads to dissolve,
sugar rock candy dissolving on the tongue.
No one else left me anything similar,
and no one else left me anything quite as personal,
as that routine of metal hands to hold me prisoner.
Sometimes I feel as though completely impaled,
the Impaler sipping on my blood,
as the watch hand spears pierce my loins and chest.
---------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|