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[Ethan Leon]: 613.The Night, and Other Poems
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THE NIGHT, AND OTHER POEMS
by
Ethan Leon
Note: These are my complete poems of 2008. As the Year is just over I have typed up, save for one poem "Madonna", all of my written work.
I will have the work of 2007 on here soon, as I have neglected this site for some time now.
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A MOTH MUST DIE
A moth must die
A moth must die, where it lies--
for if you had ever watched it,
like a voyeur
you would know.
A moth must die, when it may--
--and no longer fly
so deep into that sky--
Like a turbulent sea.
For something must die,
And die in the night--
When all eyes are closed to the--
--spasms.
A moth must die, where it lies--
To fragile for the grave just yet,
But dig it all the same.
But don’t bury it there.
Bury a weight of sorrows
Deep underground.
And prepare an urn for the angel--
That lies down prepared.
For something must die.
Die deeply in that shadow--
--of the midnight’s shadow.
A moth must die, wherever it lies--
But not tonight,
Don’t go looking tonight--
Instead keep out of the streets
And meet the moth in sleep.
And no moth will die tonight.
______________
BLACK BIRD
I have heard that blackbird,
All on it’s own.
Has the empty mouth of the twilight,
Yet spoken to it?--
I know of it alone.
I know of the loneliness
Of the night as does,
The blackbird,
Singing its solemn song.
Let it sing again for me,
As I wait for dawn.
______________
BLOODSTONE
Out by the sea we come,
Where the shriek of gulls
ploughs through the air--
--there is no city for restless
souls,
no sea like that for me.
And onward we sail--
content to see that
bloodstone full of flame,
still parades in the air.
O where?--do we sail
from that--
When there is no country
for restless souls,
no monuments like that.
Here, we spy the islands--
--dark smudges against the sky--
are these the final hieron
for souls like that?--
If there is no city,
No hieron, no country--
--for the restless
no island like that
I’ll traipse on,
To a home of my own--
--and there found a
nation,
where all will be
restless--
--souls like me.
______________
CAT'S SUICIDE
PART ONE
1
There is no simple pass
In the mountain.
The mourners must climb
Up the stairwell---
2
Winding up, winding down
The steppe is harsh
So is the sound.
I am not there,
But was with the needy,
That need. Always need.
3
The waters are flat,
The cat is quick to
Descend into the water.
I follow, cautious
Death takes it’s time.
I take mine.
4
The cat stops--
And lest’s the pace of
The waves pick up.
Death takes it’s time.
And now mine.
The sun is dim
It will not look when
The existence dives.
PART TWO
5
I stand on the beach,
The cat will die slow,
My death will follow in time.
The cat turns it’s head,
It knows I have come.
The mourners lag behind,
I am braver than them.
1.1
--to nowhere,
and get there soon.
But the stair is steep.
As is my ambition.
6
The cat goes further in,
Now only it’s head
Shows over the waves.
And I dance,
God and the Devil--
--play Senet.
And look on,
And I dance for them
All because---
7
The cat takes it’s time,
Death must wait.
God wins this round,
And the Devil will
Play again.
6.1
----I cannot bear the sham(e)
of the game they play.
The cat looks to me,
I look back---again.
It turns around and
Breathes in water.
The Devil wins this round,
He and God will play
Again.
______________
CITY OF FAILING DARKNESS
There is no light in--
that city of souls.
No star that shows off as
a lamp on the street.
In that pit there are highways,
Paths to perdition--
And only God knows
where it may have gone.
There is no sound
In that city of failing darkness--
But there is a place,
Where a torch burns bright.
High, over on the mountain
Is the Temple of Quintessence
looking for the light.
They will find the way, not by
Asking the mute sphinxes in their
tunnels--
but by trailing the angels
wandering alone on the highways.
And there will be no illumination that
Reaches the ground.
Until all the riders of the desert --
--find peace in the abyss
of the alleys.
Then there will be light--
--that is a darkness
all it’s own.
______________
FELL UP
At the instance of a--
--vague notion, I
discovered a filthy hole
and within:
a mystic wringing his hands.
"Is this Hell?" I asked
"No look deeper,
deeper than this" he said.
It's a thrill,
trudging farther down than this.
Falling up to Heaven--
--I found a saint bailing water
from a tower.
From below I shouted:
"Where is Hell?"
"Look deeper,
even deeper than this" he said.
I started down and
deeper than Heaven--
--I found Hell:
A gray valley, and in the
middle of a bleak pasture a tree.
And under the tree--I--
--found a mirror.
I held it up and asked myself,
"Is this Hell?"
"No, look deeper, farther--
--up than this"
then I fell.
______________
IT HAPPENED AGAIN THIS WAY
The bird drinks from the puddles,
But doesn’t like the rain
It glared at the sun and then--
Went on its way.
Christ hated crosses,
But couldn’t shake the feeling
That he loved the thrill
Of having a nail in each hand.
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LETTER TO JANE
Four in the morning, I'm on the hill and I look down,
You’re on the ground--
--L.A. Jane, are you sane?
I'm ever stumbling down that path
that I was once stumbling up.
I feel as if you can't see this now--
I've grown weary of moving stones downward,
and heaving them back up to the summit.
I followed your act, and gave up--
--L.A. Jane, are you sane?
You casting shadows from your grave,
and yet you’re a shadow too.
Distant from the light, singing
anthems for my delight--
--L.A. Jane, are you sane?
I'm starting back up, yet slowing down
I feel as if you can't hear this now--
L.A. Jane, are you deaf? are you sane?
You've broken the bucket and strewn the seeds
in a rocky fissure with no trees--
--L.A. Jane, are you sane?
Four in the morning, I'm on the hill and--
--I've looked down, at you
staring somewhat vacant up from the ground.
I once dropped the knife, and now I've
picked it up again.
I'll kill you if it's needed--
--I feel as if you deserved it now,
after all--
--L.A. Jane, where you ever sane?
Was I ever yours
--I feel as if you never spoke the truth.
Oh, L.A. Jane, rise up again,
before I'm done trembling at the top--
--I wish to see you take a bow,
--L.A. Jane, are you that vain?
that you'd leave without me again?
L.A. Jane, your dead to me--
--I feel as if, you've known this
for years.
______________
LUSTING AFTER VENUS
Inside the vein the world is--
--is bleak.
Outside we see illusions.
God in disguise, as a woman on
A cerulean chaise-lounge,
Hands on her thighs,
Her hair waist length.
It’s the equivalent of majesty,
Her eyes centered on me--
--turning round to see.
Her mouth drawn to a smirk,
Wearing only a turban.
Beauty so unattainable that--
--I’m at risk of trying.
To the mute Venus with a harsh gaze,
All that view her are the same--
--cold, impolite.
All voyeurs every one.
The bravery to touch her face,
Kiss her neck,
Reveals no timeless nerve.
Pressing a peacock fan into her fingers,
Or a pillow under her leg,
Is only casual luxury that she enjoys
just for a moment.
I enjoy it eternally, in my
relentless flattery of her body.
I could die happily on the floor at her feet.
Or drown, in the moist air she breathes,
Or be strangled taming her hair.
I’ll keep on at this till she adores me,
I view her as a heavenly entity.
But how does perfection view herself?--
Does my darling slave away?--
Or pass the time looking off--
--to a portrait of herself on the wall?--
______________
MANNEQUIN
1
You poor wooden model,
Your scorched arms bring me joy
That look of misery you show
It’s a sideshow I enjoy.
2
Your screams of agony send me signals--
And flashes of mercy and regret
Pass me by as I watch--
Myself crush your hand in a grate.
3
The shudder of pain across your
Forehead---sta
Poor bastard that I torture.
Bloody child I adore.
4
It’s a sport that takes it’s time
Pushing needles through your fingers
And spurs across your back.
There will never be remorse.
5
It’s cold in the morning
But warm in the ground--
I’ll bury you by a tree---
And deep so it burns like Hell.
6
The animals wear your entrails
Like freshly ironed corsets.
They wear the moisture of
Your skin like a jacket.
7
Do you feel the pulse of your leg?--
As it bends and snaps
With all the weight
Of the chains. Yes.
8
I’ll kill you sweet pet--
But not yet.
We’ve still so much to do
Playing----as we do.
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MOBY
The shade of your fin gives me shelter,
Your ribcage like a birdcage--
Only houses things so long,
instead of keeping them protected.
This sensation along your back,
As I strangle myself in envy of
You’re ever nervous diving.
This was meant for me.
Your skin, this skin, my fallout--
And yet I find myself
ready for the shore, but not ready
for your many travels.
Does the cold burn so deep?--
If so,
That too was meant for me.
That skeleton we had as company,
Didn’t talk as we do--but talked
in rhymes and motions.
This life you prepare for me--
that too was mean for me.
______________
NOISEBOX
I’m walking on skyscrapers again,
I know the feeling, like I did last time.
But the poet’s still speaking Greek,
And the birds are eating snakes,
God can I sing?--
“--Hey bungalow Bill,
What did you kill?”
And did you kill it for me?--
Where’s the noisebox?--
Ive heard it’s around--somewh
Like a goddamn cat, I think--
--that if it lived I’d kill it.
“--Hey bungalow Bill,
What did you kill?”
And did you kill it for me,
Say ‘yes’, please--
It’s not Greek, speak!--
Out of the Cathedral I crawl,
Annoyed with the time, I
Spent there on my knees.
Why have one martyr, when I can have
Three--Crucifi
Hey, bungalow Bill, kill the next--
--one for me.
And then sing.
______________
OUTER LIGHT
(For Patricia Weary)
1
Some new season--comes
To view in me;
What departs in time
Remains alive for
Me.
2
How did I labor to endure,
The high-strung beasts is keen
to venture ever closer, mouthing
my destruction.
I have no outer light--
--yet I find a signal
tuning my mind to some
strange rhythm that,
shapes itself with letters
all the time--
Masking features from my
examinations.
All this with the end of all
that darkness in me.
O’ when--
3
--Where?-- did I really see,
how a light became known
inside--how it shines
in the black with only emptiness--
--given back
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POEM, ON HIS BIRTHDAY
The wind is violent,
As is the wish---
Poured over the candle.
Pronounce that word
Again for me---hate---
So that the
Meaning stays with me.
I would want such petty things,
So petty as Whiskey
Were it not for the tasteless--
Gasp of air I strive
To overcome.
The gasp of death.
The quick flutter of the--
--closing eye.
A slowly tilting world
as mine--
Is grave but in it,
There is some beat like I
used to know--
And the candle burns low.
The mind is the key,
Not what is there---
--but will be.
I would want such petty things,
To ease the transition of age.
So petty as---
----Love that dull
laugh I would have bourn.
This is my awakening,
And the candle burns low.
You would so want,
Me to crave all your gifts--
I see the sunrise
As I listen for the blow--
And the candle burns low.
I too watch the sunrise,
As do you in the winter--
But the winter is with
Me always.
I am---I am---the changer---
And the candle burns---low---
______________
PRIVATE SETTINGS
--fingering the stems I re-arrange the blooms--
--red, violet, blue, some are white,
seeming as if they belong to a chorus.
Buried in fall they’ll be back--
--in spring.
There’s a corpse below the bulbs,
--feeding new life with dead flesh.
There’s no mystery in the darkness.
Not when you have dug and
mulched and crooned as I--
--to bring up a harlot like a flower.
Fingers bleeding from the ice,
leaving dainty stains on the petals.
The mirror leaves no illusion as to--
--what you are beneath.
I’m dreaming of clouds and trenches
This lust for eternity knows--
--has a time-frame.
Obliterating vases against the tile,
Till you find the one worth the
purity--
of such as perfect things as this--
--feeding new life with dead flesh.
Reciting lines from a wall.
It’ll kill you all, or so
I’m told.
My divinity is endless.
My graciousness, curable.
My humbleness--un
Posing the mannequins with tulips.
Twisting arms into ballerina-like positions,
Looking back I lose momentum--
--and come back to the present
tenses,
filled with private settings.
--feeding new life with dead flesh.
Falling down amongst the tulips,
Color hanging in the air.
I’m reminded of delicate limbs
and a torso going under--slow--
like a drifting petal.
My optimism is senseless.
And--I’m singing of so many
Pretty, perfect. Things,
It’ll be my end, or so
I’ve heard
Private setting like these--
--aren’t referenced in a lie.
Uprooting the sound straight from
the mouth--
My bitchiness if cold,
My beauty, bold.
My religion, a place--
--such as this.
______________
SERVING THE SERVANTS
I come down for tea,
The saints are here for me.
Try not to forget--
--I’ll be wandering hatefully
while you suffer this--
Serving the Servants of God,
Never seemed like such a chore.
I show them round the lake,
And go out knee deep--
--fishing out bibles and bottles and things,
such as that they may need.
When the play starts later,
And the Saint’s play their part--
--I’ll be wandering hatefully
while you suffer this--
One saint says to me,
‘Where is God to you?’
I tell him,
‘In the mirror, where he stays’
So the saint takes out a mirror,
And breaks it on the floor--
‘Where is God now?’
‘Dead where he should be’
The saint laughs,
And passes out--
--just remember,
--I’ll be wandering hatefully
while you suffer this--
The saints prepare to leave,
They climb in a car,
And drive away.
I toss a bible in the air,
I’ll seem them later---
--when the lights go out.
______________
SOMASIDE
This isn’t how it happened last,
You tumbled over like a crow
and leaned on your cross.
You leapt with a grin and fell from
the cliff--and screamed “--farewell”
to me.
I shouldn’t have taken you with me,
Not this time--not the last
I took a basket of your favorite things,
A bottle of wine, of whisky, and soma--
--to make you rise against me.
We played on graves together as children,
And studied a tree against a fence.
How did we leave that so quickly?--
Only to come back now.
When you killed yourself,
I eventually stopped calling--
--and I left our house alone.
And sat on a bench to think,
When I got back from the desert?--
Did I not tell you I was in love?--
But no, here we go again,
You’ve tossed a pain at me.
And it makes me cringe--
--why do we survive each other?--
______________
STORY & CLARK
(After Sylvia Plath, and Medusa)
You say there is nothing between us,
Gray stain on the keys--
Who has played it before me
Will after me?--
This is my right for life,
Or death as it will.
Tumultuous era in my life--
Ive been seeing the goddamn thing
In my dreams--
Bleak piano sliced like a yew,
A lamb or a cow.
This is my right for life,
This secret of you in me--
Completely.
But there is a bridge,
Not solid--no--
But there for the crossing
Clear tape, red lettering,
Like embroidery across the face
I caress you.
This is my right.
Not yours, you drudger.
It is private this vendetta--
--violent streak across the room
it is all mine.
This is my right--for life.
______________
STRANGLEWOLF
1
I saw you standing there at the door,
Your pale throat ready to peel--
It is time you say for a new pulse
To ruffle you’re hair, a stroke.
It took a bullet the end the war
In your head, and a poem,
To end the one in mine--
For a last time, I tried.
2
This isn’t all that you did with me,
We tumbled in the grass by a cliff--
And sang strange songs to the wind
For a last time, I will try--
To piece together that pariah body
In which you lived like a traitor--
I lived in it too, but only with you.
It was only for a season, not this one.
3
I hear that you still call for me from--
The trees, and that you morphed into
Something similar to a wild creature--
Exotic demon, to move with the night
But for a last time, I’ll try
To make you move with me.
Togetherness is immortality---
And for a last time---I’ll try.
______________
THE COMPASS ANTHEM
I was supposed to die,
And lounge in a stupor with God,
For all eternity with the pious--
But instead I threw open the door
And shouted of my existence--
To the East; to the virgins
To the adulterers, to all the bastards
To the West; to the doves
To the pigeons, to all my pretty ones
To the North; to the recluses
To all the fuckers; to the crones
To the South; to the candle wavers
To the slaves, to all the
Lonely Hunters like me.
But from--
The East; came ten wise men
All on camels, all with wine,
And I drank it.
And from--
The West; came three virgins,
All with legs that stretched like trees
Of course I climbed them.
And from--
The North; came all the sinners,
All with excuses and all the joy,
Of course we sinned.
And from--
The South; came an army,
Of all the Hunters, looking for me
Of course I led them.
And together, we sing
And it makes us welcome--
In all times of the night, but only
In the desert and other lonely places,
We aren’t forgotten.
______________
THE ENDING, OF THE END
Your colossal feet are landmarks in the darkness--
And I am ever closer to the heel,
The heel Ive been running from
Many times before.
This night is the night I strive,
Again under the arches of the cathedral
You are the deity I have rebelled from--
For all the years Ive lived.
This isn’t the last time---that I--
Will try to usurp your giant’s
Hands control from the heavens.
This is not the end,
Even though it might be the end--
I am still the same
As when we began.
All the changes Ive seen--
Don’t add up in the end.
This is not the end,
Even though it might be the end--
Of your stature in the skyline.
Morbid Skyscraper--al
Will always swim to in the seas
And will again.
This is not the end--or--
The ending, of the end.
______________
THE FOOL
11 / 24/ 2008
FINISHED 3:38 PM
I will remember you, at no stop
next stop, no end.
An act to spark the dawn of a millennia
with a war.
I will remember you, to no end
At no turn will I be brought back to those--
youthful unpracticed rages to forget.
I’ll forgive and break the sealed flask that
wets the parched lips of the world
in peace. Next remembrance, and now brood.
And move forward with a lagging pace.
To some great day--
I will remember you. And no love
from me will come without grace.
Next stop I’ll be putting up
a landmark to your fate.
I will remember you, with my mercy
piqued at the thought of your loss of
that vital march of life.
This stop I’m breaking down walls
that halt a coming change in me, in you.
We will remember you, with tears
and no blood to mar the purity of the age.
Simple acts mark deep catharsis.
With no protest over our acceptance
we will remember you, at one place
at any time--lacking hesitation.
With no guard to stand between
you and I. No man to loath the steadfast
breathing of ultimate liberty, or time
when we all stand together
again.
We will consider you, and yet
not forget that one death of meaning
can halt a progression.
And we will find a way,
This stop I’m taking a stance--
Am I the fool? To
Believe that we repent with
Open arms
Nothing gains attention--not
Through me alone,
But my words build up
a sturdy path, at no stop
With no clashing of prowess
to bring about a
passé, vain ignorance
to our reign as men--
--on a planet that lies within
the bounds of destruction in our
hands.
We instead come together,
Always,
Will I be coming forth holding
A dream of my reality.
Remember me for the Fool
I was at this stop in life.
And consider yourself a fool to,
If you can imagine things so
Odd as I
And we’ll create the paradise of
the foolish.
With no calculating risk--no chance
of our demise.
______________
THE MARBLE EYE
I remember more than you think,
From in the womb till I was on my feet--
The way you held me when I was sickly,
-and how I jolted from your embrace with a kick.
And you wrung your hands in worry.
I remember more than you think.
Your green-brown eye hung over the trees--
The violet oblivion far off yet but visible--
--if only in glimpses in the distance,
Your glass talons raking the floor--
For money or sympathy,
Fidgeting with your bible or your keys--
Oh poor wide eyed mommy. Oh poor me,
I remember more than you think,
At least, until the next retelling--
______________
THE NIGHT
They say it is there again,
Dark fruit of lust in the tree--
“I should take it for what it is
and because it is not mine”
Says the Hunter who has
sought out the tree far longer--
--than me.
But the hooves of this urchin--
The wing in the curve of the neck
Hide--black and sweat covered.
Mine, for the ride.
And the night will cave in,
Not the night, the Night--
And they, but THEM--
The Guardians of the secret
They will answer the testament.
And it will be retribution,
And it will all be done on
That night.
“It was mine once,
but it is now gone from me”
said some great teacher,
at some great gathering,
at some place or time.
“--And someday It will be there again,
where I left it in the shade”
It is theirs, was
But the hooves of this urchin,
It’s bloodshot glare--I grab the mane
And hold dearly,
Black mare that is mine for the day.
Great pasture that we ride in,
I will tame, I will tame, will tame--
This beast, then this land, then the soullessness,
Solid relief in the rain
This relic will be mine, someday in the night.
But the hooves of this urchin,
Glorious frame and skin,
Slim figure on the back of
A mare---it is mine for today.
______________
THE ROOM
I am the room,
as in---
this is the mania
I control.
You,
the single syllable
that ignites--
with a breath.
You.
I am control---
This is the shortest
Way I know,
I, You,
we bend as--
We learn.
______________
THE VIRGIN SLAUGHTERING
It’s blasphemy,
To show trashy mien--
--at such an unremarkable grave
I’d wonder if you were mourning,
Or just enjoining--
He’s taking pills--but doesn’t need water,
--he’s washing them down with castor oil.
I wonder if we’ll pump out an iron stake from your stomach,
or liver. You enjoyed death so much we ached to deliver
you to the shallow river.
I’d wonder if you were rejoicing,
Or just--well, something?--
He’s taking pills, but doesn’t need water,
--he’s washing them down with castor oil.
He’ll go deflowered to his grave.
We’ll wring out blood from his intestines,
and decorate the tombstone.
It’s astonishing,
to reveal how lucky he was.
I think he liked walks that never ended,
I think he like guns and bowls of glitter,
We’ll send him off right, with a
hole in his sternum.
Or--well, we’ll think of something.
He’s going down fast, no! let’s not revive him.
It’d be such a waste,
Such an idiot blunder--
--I’d rather see him quiver, and moan,
than remember.
He’s taking out razors--but doesn’t need bandages,
--he’s pulling out fingernails and throwing them everywhere.
This is how one slaughters a virgin,
No, this is how one slaughters a virgin,
Yes, this is how one slaughters a virgin,
Not with a grimace--but a smile.
______________
THE WALL
Against the magnitude of my ash your wall is nothing,
You build it higher yet my pile is still the same--
--compost as it was when I burned it.
You say that tomorrow you will
Build it higher still.
And then will I only stand by my ash,
And watch it blow away.
The toil of the years is on my back,
As the century’s bear down on yours--
This is the last time I will tell you
‘go away’
for my pile will still be here.
Long after your wall is gone.
A matching pair will our monuments be,
Yours crumbled and mine permanent.
This is the last time I will let you be
Tomorrow I will burn,
And join my pile.
Then you will be changed.
This shift is the terror of all souls,
And the marking of the feast--
Come down from your wall,
And watch as I fade quickly.
This is the last time I will let you be,
Forever will I burn then rise against--
the markings of change in me.
______________
THE WALLFLOWER SPEAKS
I’m a wallflower in the canary cage,
now I’m a saint.
True to the rumors I’m a prisoner,
but it’s a lovely cage.
Let’s displace our memories--
--and claw our way out, biting
off the heads of blooms.
It’s a casual thing, pissing
off days like this.
Lying in a stupor in bed--
--dirtying sheets.
I’ll fade out without trying,
or struggling. For--
--what’s the use when you
can’t bear it any longer?--
I change the channels on the window,
And speak in fragments to a doll.
Drink stale coffee out of thimbles,
And write poems like this to
keep sanity at bay.
It’s tiring being so dandy,
And so grand as I’ve become.
I still think about godheads.
Fading out of sceneries,
and waltzing out alone.
______________
URIEL
I feign my negativity--
Like a gothic Christ in his
Holiness.
I secede whatever mass I
Was a part of;
And write a canticle of depression
In the evenings--
Out to the square I come ready--
--to have my head rolled like a
die from my shoulders.
I enter, I enter, yet am an exit.
Counting the stones I grow tired,
And lie down amongst the corpses.
Yet--I tire of lifting the
Larger obelisks,
and positioning them under stars.
The moondial says it’s three
In the morning--
I go home, and there--alone--
--I wail.
______________
WHEN ACT ONE WAS PLAYED
I pass a pill to the patient
I pass a gun to the preacher,
The church is empty tonight--
--here we go again
I’m playing Christ again,
The preacher tries to interpret me--
And record my obeisance.
Oh how I try, and try.
But out we come to a park,
Where children leer like harpies,
And mothers tear at their breasts.
Is this all I ever wanted?--
--here we go again
Where’s the grapple?--wher
I can play mind games at a whim,
But for any god I can’t play me.
The patient swallows his pill,
The preacher loads his gun,
And here it all unfolds,
The patient collapses like a flower,
The preacher takes aim--
--I stand back--ashamed?
Damned! And a child becomes empty flesh,
Damned! And a child becomes a drowned bird,
The blood shines like glass.
Damn me, if the preacher doesn’t turn the gun--
--on himself!--
--here we go again act one goes on roughly.
Just remember, it’s all play.
The preacher falls back dead,
Like he’s been possessed by prayer--
--and for any god I can’t help but love
the look of agony on his face!--
______________
THE SCRAP TWIN
It’s grotesque, yet dreamy--
--hiding my eye sockets with your
unwashed hair. You
startle, you scare.
Your a hideous sight,
--and yet I am conjoined,
to this crooked neck twin.
That leers and smiles stupidly,
even to a knife.
It’s eye’s rolling like dull marbles--
--Keeping me entranced like an
admiring heretic.
I keep removing it’s limbs, till it’s
left with only that pale spongy torso.
That writhes and tosses around on the floor.
One could almost care. Or poke needles
between it’s ribs.
Tickling the lungs and listening to it breathe.
And wheeze. And squeal like a
bruised infant.
Locked inside with this demented changeling--
--counting off weeks in notches on it’s fingers.
Outdone by this madness, I kick my ugly
sibling to a corner.
Perhaps I’ll hang it in the closet.
I can’t tell whether it’s male, or female,
for it’s crotch is smooth porcelain--
--save for a dark jagged hole.
I’d say it was meant for the scrap pile.
Holding it up by it’s hair,
I can’t make out if it feels at all.
No wrinkle crosses it’s face,
Banging it against the wall, I swear it’s
begun laughing.
I’ll have to kill it eventually.
String a wire around it’s neck,
place it on the coat-rack.
And shut it away, so I can’t
hear it whine.
I think it’d be divine.
To lock it away from me,
To keep it’s eye’s from wandering round
my throat.
And gnashing it’s teeth terribly.
I pray that it’s dead by now.
I haven’t the bravery to see,
If still moves, struggles, breathes.
Watching it revolve in a pattern,
Forward, back, forward, back.
I’m ready to leave it, behind me.