he is a hyperbolic dream-king,
each finger splaying into a despicable arc
as he claims "my life is in shambles
my hope is gone"
and my life is in snapshots:
one of green glass, dark wood,
his page with all the clutter cleared away.
one of a neon sign: BREATHLESS,
an implodic glow in the vibrant night.
one of a fingertip, a mouth, tiny
full-throated imperfections of skin.
his pencil sketches my features,
his lice crawl over his tongue. ever more
his straw-thick hair wobbles drunkenly over his eyes.
the marauding riot of his speech tumbles purple in my lap
for me to stroke with two fingers; it purrs like
a ring-tailed kitten, the heat of milk rounding it's
egg-sac sides. I shudder.
I think he means to write an epic;
we will call it the art of sinking.
the art of sinking
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wow this made me shiver
ReplyDeleteit's sort of gross :P
ew
ReplyDeleteum.. okay-- what?
ReplyDeletethe only part that could be construed as gross would be the lice on tongue part, and I'm not actually talking about lice; lice is a portmanteau of lies and license. who is this anonymous who can think of nothing better to say than 'ew'?
if this didnt describe how i live so well i would be inclined to call it genius; oops, i think i just did. lovely prosaic oh jazzy one.
ReplyDeletea
prosaic
of
one
sinking.