An Edible, Usually Sweet and Fleshy Form
by Tom Goss
from that great height.
The drooping wisps of morning
fold into Mantis hands crushing
(with its offer of prayer).
Thus the trees bear
your fruiting memory-diamonds:
the ripened ovary
of your seed-bearing skull.
Yes, yes, you are dying
almost politely so
as these physically painful moths
of the clocktick passage of hours
eat away the juicy sweetness of your face.
Time slithers into your eyes
and you have no recourse
but to swoon in the staggering
anticipation of one of
your supernova head-blooms:
brainwave chorus, soul-startling love-making.
To make love
is to launch yourself into a tirade,
a scream of rebellion
against a life being wrung out in drips
from the entropy rag of this universe.
Smell, smell how her ripened scent
(with the tenderest resilience of spider-string)
drifts out of the window
and onto the streets below.
Author's Note: Please check out my new book! ;)>
Posted on 09/14/2004
Copyright © 2021 Tom Goss
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Rachelle Howe on 09/14/04 at 04:07 PM|
f!ck yes. i think you need to check out the library of Aiko Scott. I think you'd positively fall in love with her style. you remind me of her sometimes.