Wednesday, April 14, 2004


The four partitions surround,
they encircle menacingly,
with the implicit echo,
the sterile chant,
of the woodmen's "timber."

Minuscule orbs,
set adrift in the dead sea,
the will o wisps
of a mental swamp;
the signposts
to the shiny shiny knife.

Voices speak.
No, they weep and wail.
Disembodied and black,
they float dreamily
in the pillar of
a rising storm.

Dreams of Eves
and the unattainable fruit,
pervade and crunch.
They munch happily
on the monster
hiding above the bed.

Sobriety always comes.
A parody
of a funeral dirge.

I have opened the door
once or twice
but once its shut
they just come back.


Post a Comment

<< Home