Friday, February 6, 2009

Ethereal Beauty #84

Just up from my coma, and everyone's a comedian,
Salaaming inflections of internet braggadocio
Lodging in cauliflower ears where radiowaves beam,
Beckon with alien seductions, clammy-skinned dead-ringer
Giving me the silent finger after advertising his rock.

Heartthrobbing in tic-tic-tics, red chestfist, sludge and drang,
How long can this second-struck dirge go on? Melon-pelted,
Rapped by raspberries, jeered by Bronx readers, sentenced
By period-piece addicts, it’s a long impossible climb
To Ararat. Ah! Save me, Sweet or God, who cares the means?

Morning dew, fresh rehash of the misbegotten promise,
Carry my faint thoughts carefully through twin carotids
Unable to meet like an uncompleted dowser,
Hands unfurling the brittle stick which sticks in a whirl of sand.
Time, steeped like a one-generation dowry, curls the page.

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