the simplicity of my bones and their ripe apocalypses arranged on a platter...

'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, mostly 
salt and chance 
takes a liking 
to the way sugar bleeds 
always hopes someone plants 
a maple tree nearby 
it as I, can feel falling 
as a necessary ritual 

turn of events 
needing not be chosen 
but rather observed...

eyes knew, look up 

nose knew too 
follow her scent 

there is surely 
going to be flesh 

left on my bones 

what I said I didn't mind 
having to see the world this way...

my soul craved 
crawling between moods 
in search of invigoration 

dilated pupils and captured light 
I was in the dark 
my irises widen, adjust 
to sound 

Morpheus, his courtesans and couriers 
say sleep and nourishment help
for they are the mitigation squads 
and are your chorus of wanting...

"...inside you...", 

they sing 
<fading to black>

"...there are seeds to twist 
the wind to strange fruit 
for Persephone dives dark 

deep womb for fertility..."


EJR ©