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"unstarched" poems
Desperate cry! The Sapiens climb out of molded couch cushions, fake forms of human clay flesh burnt by kilns and flaming flash fiction. Electric! Eel-slippery, fat fingers plug socks on hide arches, Yellow Ems ™ where stems meet ground and grease the pure dirt with perspiration. Be, oh! BE! – please? Be ‘fore the tail forks its tip against fine china, ‘fore the lungs, with their breath, blacken all that’s left of Gran’s good silver. “Gold though!” – sweet leaf tea that glides smooth down dry throats and helps soothe, herbal chamomile confection that calls the tailor in for noose and suit. “Spades!” I say – so we dress for death, not life; we mold and rot in ‘tumes. Give me my birthday garb, unstarched, wrinkled on its frame – dusty then, I will be happy then.
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Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 10:33 PM UTC
liz-b
Counting into the Ground, or Writing and Dying in a Numerical World
Desperate cry! The Sapiens climb out of molded couch cushions, fake forms of human clay flesh burnt by kilns and flaming flash fiction. Electric! Eel-slippery, fat fingers plug socks on hide arches, Yellow Ems ™ where stems meet ground and grease the pure dirt with perspiration. Be, oh! BE! – please? Be ‘fore the tail forks its tip against fine china, ‘fore the lungs, with their breath, blacken all that’s left of Gran’s good silver. “Gold though!” – sweet leaf tea that glides smooth down dry throats and helps soothe, herbal chamomile confection that calls the tailor in for noose and suit. “Spades!” I say – so we dress for death, not life; we mold and rot in ‘tumes. Give me my birthday garb, unstarched, wrinkled on its frame – dusty then, I will be happy then.
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