Headless in Want

Fell low down the cavern to my ilky kin,
fellow parchment suckers and candle
lovers.  Wallace looked at me with blood
shot eyes, the poet of somber light, a
mythos of screaming – that infinite delight.
Delineate, I found my soft belted company,
their breeches full of keys, their skirts
above their unkempt knees.  I saw bruises
in their eyes, soft wicker baskets holding
shapeless masses of pulpy purple, each
shaved from their thighs, then thrown in
libellums and scattered about, waiting
to crawl back, from distant mouths and
distant teeth, like a memory of some old
parole they had long forgotten.  Our weary
horses with trailing moonlight begotten,
headless men in bent knees crossed the
clay river and shouted at us criminals:
“Tell us what you mean!” they routed.
“This poem is about people taking the
torments of us poets and interpreting them
like they’re their own memory.”  I said.
“Oh.  Thank you.”  I stared past his headless
absence, I expected the form to materialize,
but merely saw a Parisian alabaster statue
gawk at my perversions, turn the page, and
spit as our likeness into darkness turned
and our meat spoiled and stank.  I took out
the blade and slipped one sliver of meaning,
its fresh blood was shaped like a green apple
Gusher, only those with fangs could invite
the nectar, a short interview with sugar,
my victual laced blood, iron deposits, as
rust grew on the pages and gave a final
turn, “That’s almost too simple.”  They said.


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