A naked boulevardian
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By lavadis
Sat, 28 Mar 2020
- 763 reads
2 comments
1 likes
This where the fire engineer lives,
in an elastic bedsit
in the interstices between Beaujolais and Thunderbird
the tactical skin
wince-flexing around his
glass shard eyes
as the poundy pound
of his smash-safe
alarm clock
splinters him awake
Sitting up in bed now,
head propped
on a single bread dough pillow
splash-thrashing through
memories-
hidden, appropriated, locked and loaded.
These are the wedding photographs he has buried,
ten thousand morning kisses he forgot to give,
this is raw
his life a three page storybook
seen through the
unleavened eyes
of his mother on the day of his birth
a naked boulevardian
a philanderer
a lazy spy
A headache has begun
one of his Saturday specials
it was on a morning like this
he sold his fingers to the moon just for the lipstick sweet taste
of freedom
He smacks his head
a question, spherical, molten green,
Star Trek pinballs
around his skull
until it reaches his eardrum
where
it wedges fast
In goes a claw, three cotton buds
an adjustable screwdriver
(don’t try this at home)
until eventually
the question pops out
on to his shark tooth white
cotton
sheets
Where are the wolves today?
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Comments
1 User voted this as great feedback
Completely brilliant. A
Permalink Submitted by drew_gummerson on
Completely brilliant. A procession of unusual, startling images that have absolute clarity in their absurdity. And I've seen the wolves, they're at the end of the pier, dancing a slow waltz while sucking on popsicles.
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