"sonnies" poems
A ripening sky-
dotted ambiguously with
molten fibers--
*the sculptor’s daughter
And her flesh shavings.*
How corrupted,
the christening angels:
the sunsets they cry, and contaminants they hide.
Our faux harvest of a blessed apple,
slaughtering the whole barrel,
Ripping out their cores.
Zipped through bursts of
squints and charcoal,
inky, starless
irises--
*Dolly Misandrist; not human;
one after the other, sliced those sonnies up,
Knocked them down like chess pieces.*
Perhaps she wanders, and flees-
filled with - fire -
spilling over with sin;
perching on her
Shattered masterpieces.
A flock of birds,
ringing around the carcass,
pounced to tear apart their evening meat--
*they chased Dolly the damsel to the state border,
She was fenced in by boys and their
grandfather’s pistols.*
Cleared her throat to plead one last swan song,
but was interrupted by the scraps
of bread they threw into the duck-pond.
*The first boy shot her right between the chest-
“You shouldn’t have been such a **** Misandrist.”
Eyes-
“That’s for my brother.”
Head-
“Ladies don’t come first where you’re going.”
A speechless, frozen moment passed.
Blank stares. Open mouth. Nothing coming out.
“That *****
The trees scurry from beneath
the ocean of stars. Come Sunday morning,
the church pews are full.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC