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Exit Persephone (standard:poetry, 362 words)
Author: Dr. TortoiseAdded: Feb 24 2001Views/Reads: 2231/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A poem I wrote while stoned. I had been brutally dumped the preceeding day, so the imagery is quite peculiar. It ends up being humorous, and having interesting psychological implications. See if you can unravel the convoluted metaphors!
 



And it was heavenly. We watched the maple-sugar apocalypse consume his
life, planned for but wholly unexpected. 

A DOMESTIC SCENE 

Henceforth, he went from house to house in such a manner, putting his
gleaming silver handgun to the head of each victim, who were always 
looking the other way, always acting as if nothing would ever go wrong, 
thinking but not accepting. The sound unheard, the rest left unknown, 
too messy, but life. 

ENTOMOLOGY 

Only the dope-addled nazi king knew what was coming. 

NOVOCAINE 

The void widens, engulfing every bug and thistle and crumb of the
horrible world [book] from which the ill child was unexpectedly 
delivered. 

IN/OUT 

The madness was finite, staged for the indulgence of the madman. But he
was just like the others, indoctrinated and clamped down. He will die 
in his cartoon underwear, an embarrassment to the scholars who spawned 
him. 

HAPPYNESS FOUND UNDER THE SINK 

They danced together, the two figures, in what appeared to be perfect
unity, a carnal tribute to mind and matter, fluff and lace, the 
condiments and nothing more. 

EROGENOUS DEMONS OF YESTERYEAR 

And the tinder tiny legs idol of muted desire strangely squashed before
going up in bright blue howling flame, comforting the shivering fool 
who hunched over the furnace, hoping to ward off the icy specters who 
had already taken his arms and legs. 

HOLLOW TORTOISE SHELL 

And they moaned, but in the end, they received their just desert. 

FLAMING WHITE FLEECE OF THE LAMB 

There are cigarette burns on the back of his hands, over the tendons.
But accept the food he gives, lest you fall again into the hell you won 
from dead lovers. One hundred feet up, three seconds down. 

BRACES FOR THE CHAOS 

The downy gray opium whiskey kiss flutters through the air and gently
impacts on the brain of this ill boy. A billion generations died to 
produce him. But tap his brain and it falls apart to reveal that it is 
nothing more than worms and rancid meat packed together, leaving a 
greasy stain on the pristine window. 

A RETURN TO THE INCUBATOR 

He looks understandably confused as the arms of the spiral finally
touch. 


   


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