porcelain torso
by Wm. Rike on March 08, 2007
This is a song about rage cut short
by the incessant need of the meter reader.
This is the snapped silence of bloodflow
in an obscured heart with metronome.
This is our road trip to Rat Trap, when
we tried to capture an electrical storm
with a hundred mile an hour electrical tape.
We started out from our little bungalow
on Needed Like a Hole in the Head Lane,
only to break down in the suburbs
of Tepid Tundra. Like hell we did.
We split up to better find
the lost reason for children,
promising each other to find nothing.
Well, we fucked up, naturally,
as gravity often requires. I fell in
with canasta sharks and a couple
of traveling toothbrush salespersons.
You can sell a carnivore anything,
batteries or his own ass included.
I never did find you again, and
perhaps you were the lost reason.
I forgot about reason and took a job
in this, my new home town,
as a to-your-door cheese grater.
There was little call for it, but
the benefits were excellent.
Sometimes I wish I could call you
and tell you about my new torso.
It’s made of burnished porcelain.
Occasionally, when I touch it, I swear
the smudges I leave on its surface
resemble the ideal of your fingerprints.
Today, I went back home, and you
were gorgeous in your absence.
I saw the meter reader again,
told him I wasn’t mad anymore.
This post has been viewed (on this page) 282 times .
PEN World Voices Festival at MetaxuCafé
Related Discussions
Comments
No Comments yet.