Tuesday, December 20, 2005

eleven sparks

the ghost of a New Orleans
tipping his hat
and then the waitress
like the coreographer just got fired
and the chefs come out of the kitchen
but the audience is gone
minutes earlier
someone whispered, "fire"

the alien in each of us
under the strange lighting of this world
with LSD
we first concieve
all the strangeness that we've seen
bipedal bottles of organs
typing resumes, making love

pain killers making the stomach turn
and the skin flash white
at 5 in the morning
one look outside and the weatherman's wrong again
but the clock's right, always is
trying to sleep with the lights on

this wine stain
haunting me
with nights never remembered

the promise of rock 'n roll morning
matches the grime under my nails
I never expect "O Tenenbaum"
to end as an instrumental

the bus boy
clinking glasses
the milk shake machine
drowning out the piped in

something about
the shape of lips
on german porn starlets
during anal

and Ian's story:
cowboy boots
a black lincoln
a red ring masters jacket
pill after pill of morphine

never hearing the sound
of eye lashes cutting through air
a small girl in tight t-shirt
with the light playing just right
against her face
small towns scattered off in the night
with mad lustful teens
unbuttoning lowrise jeans
there's a mottled cat
perched in a window
tail moving slowly

these imposing sunrises
inviting themselves into mornings
better left as unmaid night
tossing hair, stealing bodies, keeping secrets
of whispers in smothering sheets
the used and the savored

brought up in Vegas
off the strip, no neon in her soul
the fantastic way
she lets no sentence escape
without a well placed superlative

No comments: