|'Persephone', by Ian Cashman ©|
the simplicity of my bones and their ripe apocalypses arranged on a platter (this was a dream, I tell you)
she must be the samba
instead of the calypso
I should have known,
this music made me want to lay down
and give up any thought of a crown
inside her bed chambers
the windows were open
and the curtains were billowing
Autumn had arrived in prattle paper poems...
my feet were a tangled mess
I was hoping to be blessed
by forgiveness in an envelope of forgotten sorrow
I said I'd be right back and ventured toward
the lavatory, she said it was down the hall
and to the right though if I had to pee
she said I could do that outside if I preferred...
the wash basin had a spigot over it
that seemed preternaturally extruding from the stone
wall behind it, I thunked it with my finger to be sure it
was not stone or metal for it seemed like an old tap root
gathered on some seashore, a piece
of driftwood worn smooth
tide after tide, gnawed at by time...
humanity is mostly
salt and chance
taking a liking
to the way sugar bleeds
it always hopes someone plants
a maple tree nearby
it as I, can feel falling
as a necessary ritual turn of events
that need not be chosen
but rather just observed...
my eyes knew to look up and my nose knew
to follow along her scent for there were surely
going to be flesh left on my bones
when I said I didn't mind
having to see the world this way...
my soul was
crawling between moods
in search of invigoration
dilated pupils and captured light
I was in the dark
when my irises widened to adjust
to the sound of Morpheus
and his courtesans and couriers
who said, sleep and nourishment help
for they are the mitigation squads
and we are your chorus of wanting...
<fading to black>
"...there are seeds to twist
the wind into strange fruit
for Persephone again..."