(whisper)
Atop the Temple of the Sun,
bathed in radiant gold,
starlight blasts away our masks...
i.) Kissing the Eyes of the Dead
midnight oxygen flows to earth, littered
with dessicated pumpkin seeds
and the fading remnants
of communal nightmares,
haunting the City Primeval,
we dance a jingly-jangly foxtrot
across oil-stained, debris-strewn streets,
not daring to look one another
in the eyes,
never catch our taffy-pulled,
Francisco de Goya-esque
reflections
in the windows
to someone else's soul ---
it is a brittle kindness,
it is a neurotic's etiquette
--- wanting, lusting,
desiring, thirsting
to place our lips
in icy benediction
upon the closed lids
where old copper pennies
are destined to rest.
ii.) This Pillow Of Cadavers
It's hard to breathe
-- pant? wheeze? gasp? choke? --
when you're wrapped
so tightly around me,
constricting
and yet a comfort
against the maelstrom
abroad the screaming face
of this shrunken head world,
we lay our heads down
on a bed of broken yesterdays,
eyes happily shut
against the relentless
spinning
of our whirlygig minds,
seeking stillness,
wanting a suspension
of painful animation,
praying for sleep
atop an altar of flesh
decomposing...,
we inhale and the scent
of dissolution
lulls us into dreaming,
and, finally,
our lungs grow still.
(mutter)
The thing struggling in the mud
at the great temple's base weeps,
frustrated and blind...
*********
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Statue 05" by Plasmatic [Nicola Vernizzi], dreamstime_725433.jpg
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