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"oingo" poems
I could have gone to the cemetery, or back to my high school lab, find him lecturing from a podium, bony finger raised, demagogue of the dead. I could break him down piece by piece, cram him in a duffle, a femur jutting the zipper. Ignore the groan- Skeletons are by nature never satisfied. Instead I found myself in the carnival lot, The dog was long dead, the sign kept guard. Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds. Cotton candy in memory- blue tack crunching my teeth. Lewd. Skeletons fixed on poles, spiked up through pelvis and spine. Use **** Grip shoulders. twist. lift. When one slid free, he collapsed into my arms all bone-light, lovely, mine at last. I just brought him home. Sat at the kitchen table. Named him Curly. Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird! What’s his name? What’s his name? His name is Curly, I said, but I knew his name was You. We drink wine by the pool. He never sips. Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint. Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman wants to play his ribs like a xylophone. Sometimes he sighs, he hates Oingo Boingo. I laugh. Obliging. So do I. When the wind kicks up he smells of sugar and rust. Sometimes he rattles the glassware. Sometimes he won’t sit still. Skeletons are by nature never satisfied.
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Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
William-A-Gibson
Curly
I could have gone to the cemetery, or back to my high school lab, find him lecturing from a podium, bony finger raised, demagogue of the dead. I could break him down piece by piece, cram him in a duffle, a femur jutting the zipper. Ignore the groan- Skeletons are by nature never satisfied. Instead I found myself in the carnival lot, The dog was long dead, the sign kept guard. Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds. Cotton candy in memory- blue tack crunching my teeth. Lewd. Skeletons fixed on poles, spiked up through pelvis and spine. Use **** Grip shoulders. twist. lift. When one slid free, he collapsed into my arms all bone-light, lovely, mine at last. I just brought him home. Sat at the kitchen table. Named him Curly. Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird! What’s his name? What’s his name? His name is Curly, I said, but I knew his name was You. We drink wine by the pool. He never sips. Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint. Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman wants to play his ribs like a xylophone. Sometimes he sighs, he hates Oingo Boingo. I laugh. Obliging. So do I. When the wind kicks up he smells of sugar and rust. Sometimes he rattles the glassware. Sometimes he won’t sit still. Skeletons are by nature never satisfied.
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