Seaside Fable

 A memory came to me, riding in a wagon

pulled by a baboon. Sick and white-faced,

this memory asked for a glass of vinegar

and told me in Spanish that the baboon was a doctor.

"She can cure you," the memory assured me 

in a terrible cross-saw voice. "I'm not sick," I

insisted, but the memory barked, balancing

a world on its nose like a seal and said, "You are dead already."

This world spun on a wash of wine, yellow and sour,

and was no world of mine. "Listen, horrid seaside ghost,

ashes can never be castles again, and you don't exist."

That's when the sick, dying, putrescent memory-thing

bit me in the heart, and laughing, threw back its head as if hanged.

There was nothing the baboon doctor could do,

and seeing this, she hocked my memory and gave

me the ticket, saying, "Swap me your forgiveness,"

but I injected her with roaring fury and beat her to death 

with my empty heart.

__________

for Word Garden Word List--Giovanni's Room

Music: Men At Work Down By The Sea

Half Past Bitter Sweet

 

There's a peculiar kind of holy naive feeling that I get

when you step out of December

and through my box of memories that never happened yet.

Here's the ring that fell from a lost sea shell

and broke in shades of lonesome

to set the bungs and tie tongues of those who crave to tell.

In my dreams you are a hunter

when I'm falling in my sleep

and I can't put my finger on it

but its far and fey and half past bitter sweet.

You'd tell me it's just bullshit if you talked to me at all

so I spend the hours wounded

making feathers for a blackbird who sold them for a call.

In the garden Quasimodo is looking for his bell

and hes crying but can't hear it

except when he gets near it and can't say if it will make him worse or well.

In my dreams you are a dust-star

when I'm flying in my sleep

and I can't put my finger on it

but it's far and fey and half past bitter sweet. 

_______

for Word Garden Word List #6 (Laura Marling)

Note: this poem has nothing whatever to do with clergy. I liked the picture for other reasons. It's a love poem.

Ravenous

"Hold you in his arms, yeah, you can feel his disease" --The Beatles

Here is your ideal lover,
restless beside you in bed,
skin alive with a traveling infestation.
Reach out.
Go ahead.
Embrace the one who writhes as he sleeps.

Here is your constant one,
with words as sweet as rot
leaking from cracked teeth that teem with larvae.
Kiss him.
Suck his infected tongue with your lips
Because he cannot harm you.

Here is your adored one's treasured heart
housing sickening vermin.
Never mind the pitch and yaw
Of whatever fills his discolored chest.
He can explain all that, like so many times before;
Bring in a team to identify exactly what he is.

Touch him.
Kiss him.
Sit beside him and listen to him break wetly apart,
and, out of kindness, try not to vomit too obviously.
He is not what you thought he was.
He is legion,
and it is himself he devours, not you. 
_________

For Skyflower Friday. Monsters.

Temporis Circulum Frustra

In a suitcase--your bones--
scored and yellow--
under the bed.

In fact--and in spite--
not destroyed--
not dead.

You visit me in dreams, in Winter--
Winter always--
down a frozen well.

Come to this--come to take me--
by the hand--
into Hell. 
_______

for Real Toads mini-challenge.

Poor Werewolf

A wealthy werewolf wearing worsted and a Windsor tie,
wondered whether I'd witnessed a wench -- his wife.

I said, she whispered to me that she can't stand stubble--
which, for you, I think, means trouble.

On Wednesday last, she wandered by and slept
with me; and when the werewolf heard -- that worthy wept.
_____

for Marian's letter W prompt at Toads