|Exit Persephone (standard:poetry, 362 words)|
|Author: Dr. Tortoise||Added: Feb 24 2001||Views/Reads: 2168/0||Story 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. Tweet
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