Apr 4, 2013



First will emerge
the imps of shame,
walking clots of dark
muscle that will turn
to mewling, pleading things
in the earthly atmosphere.

Then gouts of tears
from the watershed
betrothed to us all,
in the relentless beams
of the sun the rainbows
that will play around you
will have an eighth color,
not from outer space
but the inner crazy
aquifers of doubt.
The unreasonable animals
that will come to drink
from the resulting pools
are not to be trusted.

& then the very owl
of Athena, whom we believed
to be so rare, pinions
slicing the ordinary air,
will alight on a powerline,
incredulous she is there at all;
goddamn—you have no idea.
No, really, she flew off with them all.

The comes the infernal piping,
a single note
through the aperture,
it is the bean sidhe’s shriek,
but don’t be afraid, she’s
out of context here—
your hairdresser
on the cross-town bus—
beware beware beware
beware beware, etc.
Are you finished now?

At last there’s only a creepy
drain-gurgle, a last squirt
of television static, a few earworms,
goodbye Fernando,
& then nothing but a dull,
wholesome ache.
Well, what did you expect?

It should come as no surprise
that these effects are only temporary;
any idiot, after all, can drill a hole
in their skull.  The sublime transformation
of death is reserved for death.  Duh.

Look on the bright side,
now you’ll always have a spot
to store a cork.

No comments: