Adulthood clings
patchwork to this suit of skin
Frankenstein named
and Frankenstein burned
an ill-tailored suit
lunatic suitors sewed
as clouded eyes beheld
silhouettes beyond the street
scissors dancing in the dark
could not return light
notions on the periphery:
dreams of what I used to wear.
Deep down in the marrow of costumed bone
lies the lonely bastion where hope might roam
she cloaks herself in mercy’s skin,
constructing strength, as warmth, from within
scores the walls to scale the rain
before the river dries within the drain
hips akimbo, straddling the lands
once stoked and carved by swaying hands—
it’s more than stubborn brow,
it’s something less than the weight of a farmer’s plough;
yet prisoners don it day by day
with gloved flesh, lest humanity wash away.
It’s never enough to walk the walk.
The walk springs heels
heels spring teeth
and the subtle lines–
grace and poise–
they sink their teeth into the eyes
spun in lies routinely filed
hook-line-sinker
for the heart:
flesh always leads astray.
She woke before me,
straining her brush through aurora strands,
smiling at the pale gown
reflected in the blue-green mirror.
When she stretches,
pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple
collect prism dew, drowning
in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.
The vapors of her perfume are scentless,
senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes
like butterfly winds—fluttering out
from east to west; an oriental song.
But the lantern burns—
by night she is radiantly departed:
she lays her head in my lap
and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.
*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.
And here it is,
this lonely longing,
for time and place unseen,
unheard, mayhaps unknown,
a future or a past that neverwere,
in Ghouls and Goblins fair,
these Ghosts of Pasts our blood
have never seen,
this laughter, in a sweet
wrapping up the joys of childhood
into a chocolate wrapper, knowing
the eyes, not the face
its monstrous mask a momentary
Madness answered in a thousand faces,
the spirits channeled through the joy
of laughter in the chill,
these golden lives pirouetting to
the Pumpkin Song, all hail
Imagination,
Master and Commander
of mind’s most curious Desires.
* Another poem for the wonderful Monday Poetry Potluck, as hosted by Jingle Poetry, and those lovely poets Amanda and Kavita!
The Waking Den 