A naked boulevardian

Cherry

By lavadis

Sat, 28 Mar 2020
  • 798 reads
2 comments
 
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? 
 
 
Certificate PG
Poem
Poetry
Fantasy

Comments

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. 

 

Submitted by lavadis on

This took me three months to write and all came together yesterday. Your words are hugely appreciated