Thursday, December 8, 2011

Lava lamps, graveyards, and the elderly.

Lava Lamp
There was a lava lamp
glowing in the center of the room.
We waited for the wax to melt
so we could pick out shapes.

Soon she was wearing
a crown of perfumed fat
like ancient regality
and sucking morning dew
from the petals of a flower
like a mosquito sucks blood from a cow.

I couldn’t understand a word she said
but she spoke until she was interrupted
by the psychedelic genie
that finally appeared
like a neon colored stalactite.

Taste of Graveyard Dirt
In front of yellow teeth
and bottom lip, stretched and pregnant,
the wet dirt that your corpse inherited
is sucked of its juice,
like a ghost moving through a picket fence,
and spat at the coarse, dry grass-
a blackish oasis
that the thirsty ants will not touch.

You, forgotten
and your memories,
like the vile dribble
that clings to the gray snow
of the unshaven chin
that is soon wiped away by the forearm
in a single thoughtless gesture.

Bitter old man
You chase the shadow
and around
and around
the sundial.
Stopping to catch your breath
you notice the elasticity
of your skin
and the weariness
in your bones
and you weep
for your lost youth
but your tears have dried and
you are too old to bleed,
too old for the butcher.

Yours is no tragedy.
None cry over spilt milk
once it has soured.

No comments:

Post a Comment