by peter
So that’s what you want.
A figuritive line, the drenched palm
spawning curlicues in the dust.
Oh, and while we’re at it how about
the all mighty metaphor
with twisted snake head
and blood dripping from its jowles?
That image was floating
above a toothless rag-beast
as I walked past her
the endless line of bags and
shirtless conversations
crouched gargoyles on low
brick walls into the library.
(Free! Air conditioning! Entertainment!)
She stops just short of falling over
claw grabbing the shirt seam ripping
sputters apocryphal incantations
breath warm and hot bile-filled.
Tearing skin or shirt, it’s automatic.
Vanishing point. Doppler voice leaves it
all behind.
But Nothing everywhere inside.
Aisles rampant with green chunky vomit and dried semen patches.
Out, out creeping.
Crows and kink-neck buzzards
blacken the sky.
Heel toe over her dead corpse and light
the Civic ablaze.
Driftwood stylus is dull and blunted
the dirt massacred with
Wash your hands. Scrub the dusty blood from under the nails.
And wipe your feet, for chrissakes.

0 thoughts on “untitled

  1. hi pete, i like yer poem! this suits the occasion swimmingly, for me. i just finished watching pandora’s box. at the end, spoiler alert, jack the ripper murders louise brookes. i don’t know how i feel about it. but yer poem reminds me of ripe, fast, violent sensations i get immediately upon entrance to bad-reactions-to-medications. although i’d never kill nobody, i understand this.

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