Quiet, voices, I pray to my ethereal wreck.
“Beauty in a flower, milk of kindness,
Gentle heart at rest with God ….”. What’s the use?
Time to converse with the rubbing alcohol.
O the fire-juice burns my lungs, criss-crossing
Eyes now alight on bosomy hills. Tight,
I evaporate in a slough of inertia.
I tried for brotherhood of one -- me -- but
Was self-rebuffed. Forgotten blandishments
From a childhood sidekick, sick with insistence,
Causes this cribbing, the stall sash splintered.
There’s a word, a mantra given, I think,
Advancing like a papal bull in a
Nun’s strongbox, over and over and over.
Breathing spasmodically, something’s wrong.
Hymnal pages flutter like parade awnings,
Insouciant, extending spines. I’ll continue
To mate marriage proposals with charred lust.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
Post a Comment