10 April 2010


Dreams of a massaging octopus bruise my sleep,
then manipulate my form into a macabre marionnetted tarantella.
Drumming death away, tambourines startle the air in shivers
across my sweat soaked skin. I wake weakened.
A rattling jingle resounds.

Last week I ate the fried talons of a vulture picked
from a barren pumice field where it fell from the rotted sky.
Putrid fumes preceded the foul feast washed down
with gray green water gathered in pails from the rain.

My belly burns for food fruited and festooned
a jug of jam, brown sugar floating on cooked oats . . .
Whispers stir the fringe of my reverie.

We need to eat.
She won’t last another day, let’s do it now.
Gather the killing stones.
We feed each other. Get it?
Shut up, show some respect.
Strum your guitar, play the song she likes.
Gather the killing stones.

Cat Stevens’ wind blows over my bones, and
a rattling jingle resounds.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Love the way you did this. I had half a mind to do the same (such horribly good words for poems), but couldn't quite get a handle on it.