Sunday, December 12, 2010

Everyone Must Sing For Their Supper

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Circe 438

he cannot fly
He must come to grips with his own life
his changes have cloaked him in a pall of surrender
he floats by, muttering,
"all you meant, nothing left, I can never forgive."
carefully the splinters are slowly worked into
the waiting fingers
a kiss in the moonlight
and soon after
the jeering begins
his heart is executed in absentia
and tallied on the nearest hour.

(for JM)

Circe 439

My head is a litebrite
my skull is crossed with waiting
fortunately, there are pills
we open our meat
and complete the act
with a snack of pig and lemon
and kippered herrings
into a hole full of lime
we lurch, rattling and find
a good place to place
our remaining gravy
painless hate, you
present me with a gift of feet
with which I stand
and wait.

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