Sunday, April 3, 2011
Old Scratch
the most beautiful fruit thinks in snakes
self-portraits summoned in circus mirrors
peopling the golden spiral
in the ghosts of grave robbers
and overdosing doctors
whose torsos reach
from the clay walls
in which their bodies
are embedded.
god must be leglike
in the organized reflexes
that mix the limbs and nerves
mysterious, like sociopaths
who pray for their day
of judgement.
bone chains
bind us to the flames
in the moisture of desire
the echoes of their laughter
makeshift dreams buckling under
the confinement of love
led by the strings of Old Scratch
what dream will play you
into his machine
what dream will bait you
toward the darkness?
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