April 17, 2016

we'll meet you and the selkies at the shore ........................................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

'The satyr and the peasant.'
etching by Wenceslaus Hollar, 1607 - 1677






tell me, when my working class dream glass house is shattered 
by the ties that bind me to my humanity, ought I untie 
Prometheus to shed some light on the subject ... fuck those 
hungry birds ... I'll lie in wait and eat their tiny livers with some 
lovely micro greens ... at first I'll offer them Jack's magic beans 
... legumes, I've consumed when wanting to tell my tall tales ... 
and I don't chew them so well because I like the sounds I can 
make when alone and in possession of a yoga ball ... were you ever 
going to believe me when I said a cloven hoov-e-d goat man was 
my father ... the stench of disdain is plainly obvious ... opaque 
shades silhouette you like nothing else save burning your 
house down so now we use the newer lower wattage LED 
lighting ... and combining those with aerosol-ed mdma 
goes a long way for a gathering of vibratory beings to get to 
their hearts of things much more quickly, given at first the ease 
on the eyes ... nose knows we know it wants to know 
what is going to be the path ... likes to have inner folds and petal 
storage for the pressed fiber felt dark before dawn that we 
sometimes pocket as a memory ... the marrow 
we give to the bones is for ghosts to pick through ... 
and as we said each other's prayers it 
mattered not if we believed ... 

we never 
found Prometheus, just scattered remnants of parties with
candles and tons of graffiti ... all that remained 
on the crag was chained rust and lazy 
fat souls conditioned 
to speak like Diogenes 
and demand to be fed by tourists ... 

everyone thought 
it reminded them of Père Lachaise Cemetery ... 
we agreed to pick up the 
garbage and not look any begging soul directly in the eyes ... 
we had been raised by wolves 
and warned of Gorgon-ic and Basilisk-ic certainties 
in stone, surrendered souls could possess ... 


at the summit we took care to wear eye gear ...and not to be so 
       afraid of Euryale's cries on the dark seas while we drive down to 
the sea and burn, in that found oil barrel ... the garbage we 
collected ... we can clam steam ... and jacket some potatoes ... 
I believe we saved that tequila ... someone always has weed ... 

when it comes time for dancing though do it slow and with your 
eyes closed when embracing anything or one 
away from the flames ... because Euryale can 
ride both wave and wind turn you 
to stone in breath and begin 
... here at the end of poem as well ... 

because we all knew she 
                would never get over Medusa's death and that losers in 
   mythology can't paint history as well as the winners can ...


EJR ©

1 comment:

  1. This is hilarious:
    "and I don't chew them so well because I like the sounds I can
    make when alone and in possession of a yoga ball"

    ReplyDelete