Slump, Part 2

Read Slump, Part 1 here.

Desert-charred quadriplegic dies

Murmuring “rosebud”

His final word mingling with Italian skies,

Crawling under trim fingernails.

 

A painted lady annoys

The ecstasy of the woodland festival,

Twirling hoops of fire around the

Pagan’s phallic ivory tower,

Whooping ancient cries, begging for smoggy rain

Begging for a rash.

¿Has visto a mi amor?

 

the last I saw of him, he was growing

stubble upon his chin,

pondering the meaning of,

what?

 

A knight-errant, green stone set deep into his brow

Drove his horse straight into a river,

Just to see if the veins of mother Gaia

Would send white-blood cells

To die against the point of his spear.

 

I rest my head on Cleopatra’s lap,

Smelling her feminine mystique as it wets sand,

The slaves jump for joy

And pull, pull, pull,

The nose right off the painted sphinx.

She pets my head, asking if I’m ready

For the afterlife, asking if I’m ready

For hooks to meander up my nose,

Like the incense smoke that masks the scent of

Sweat dripping from my emerald forehead

As she pulls, pulls, pulls.

 

Charon turns the rotting hull towards

A rocky fjord, saying,

“We just have to make a quick stop,

I, uh, well, I have a date with Hecate,

And I haven’t been laid in a coons age.”

 

“you know I’m a sucker for sad eyes,

don’t you my love?

you know I love

that look you give when one of your peers

vomits ignorance onto your vans?”

 

you know I will leave you, first chance I get?

 

“where will you go, my love,

where can you go?”

 

A valley, pockmarked with evergreens

and wolf tracks, hides a solitary road

devoid of forks. Somewhere behind,

a stork’s hideous laugh encourages

forward motion.

 

Los Angeles finest lady

Stays up all night,

Perfecting the spiraling motion

Of her eagle-feather pen,

Dripping acidic ink

Onto parchment made of moor skin,

Dictating a culling song

Aimed at her ex-boyfriends

New ex-girlfriend.

 

Slung around a porcelain lover

Here comes the truth

I’m in a slump.

I’m on rumspringa.

Slump.

 

I lay down, just for a moment,

Upon the beautiful uncut hair of graves,

And tuck Whitman’s soul

Into a hidden pocket in my disheveled flannel.

 

“So there is some happiness in you after all?”

 

only because I know who I am,

only because I know what I’m not.

 

“Kiss me, my love,

and be healed of these visions.

Quiet your mind,

cease this division,

let my breath heat your pineal gland,

and my hands cradle your heart,

my body shall be a crutch

to straighten your frame,

we will smell springs lustful wanderings,

and chase her to the shore.

Our feet won’t be interrupted by

the lapping of the ocean,

the gulls will boast

of our love, if set in motion.

Cast your fear out to sea,

And your memories with it,

Put them in a bottle

Full of multicolored pebbles,

So they may sink, and provide anchor

For the nimble bull kelp’s

Drunken sway.

Kiss me, my love,

And be healed of these visions.”

 

I’m afraid.

 

Only because I know who I am.

 

I’m in a slump.

 

Only because I know what I’m not.

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