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Of Poetry and Proficiency

The monkeys who dwell in the basement of my brain have been kicking up an unusual amount of poetry of late.

Unrequested. And distracting, since I’m trying to finish a new Smutsterpiece and “La Barceloneta” and “Werewolves Don’t Use Silverware.”

But in the meantime, my brain, overwhelmed by a change of physical, temporal (in the figurative sense) and metaphysical (in the literal sense, if you can dig it – and I know that you can) loci, insists on drawing inspiration from my tiny charcoal heart. So, let me clear this out of the way so I can go back to writing other stuff. Yeesh.

Oh, and although it is untitled, let me just say this: You know who you are.

You are not the first
to discover, wrapped in the
wry, silver-soft strands

Of my joker’s net,
An obsidian bauble,
Jagged and blood-warm.

You are not the first
to receive this unwanted,
unlooked-for gift,

To find there’s no way
it may safely be handled;
all scythes and tired sighs.

You are not the first
to cast it hence, eyes stinging,
clenching bloody fists.

You are not the first.

But now, as I sit
winding a new shroud of mirth,
Uncertain if I’m

Wrapping a gift or
simply delaying, once more,
cold, just, internment,

I wonder still, dear,
(As I wonder about all
the women so touched)

If one day you might
discover, through alchemy,
or the dark wisdom

Found in time’s grey halls
Some arcane, red-steel gauntlet
To permit you, then

To hold this wretched,
razor-edged, couer d’guignol
in your patient hands.

You would be the first.

Published in"The Gay."BlogFun Stuffpoetry

One Comment

  1. ahg ahgNo Gravatar

    DAMN. That is all.

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