Sunday, November 30, 2008


Saturday was

Roses, heavy with sensual vanity,

The same red as the flush across her breasts, or your blush when she praised you.

It was

A delicious apple sliced with a good silver knife,

And the lazy knowledge of the white china bowl containing its seven sisters.

Sunday is

Cave flowers, grey as an old dusty book,

Falling apart like brittle pages of bad poetry best forgotten.

It is

Bone fruit so dry it shrivels the tongue,

So un-nourishing that each bite brings emptiness, starvation.

It is skull candy, dream-rot, sick-music.

It is all that's left.



Mama Zen said...

My God, this is . . . well, it just is. And, I adore it!

Vodka Mom said...

loved it.......

Shrinky said...

So sad.

Fireblossom said...

Thank you all for commenting, ladies.

Jannie said...

skull candy
dream rot
fire blossom

drifting on the wind of your words...

Fireblossom said...

There is probably something twisted about writing something born of pain and then going, oh, good line! But i did, I liked that troika near the end. I should probably be taken out and shot. Please.

S.L. Corsua said...

I admire this. The emotion is (and does come off as) real, and the expression thereof is not raw (not a direct 'tell'). Impressive wordplay and imagery. Cheers. (I hope you are doing better now, with peace.)

Poutalicious said...

I have a habit of saying that Sundays are "polluted," but you say it so much better!

bone fruit so day it shrivels the tongue...skull candy

Right on.

Poutalicious said...

oops, I meant to type so "dry" not day. ughh