by Max Bouillet
On nights my tongue thickens
and I sit naked and dumb-eyed
staring at the witches
swimming in her veins,
she curses me, drags my flesh
to the light
and plucks the ghosts
out of my hair.
She gathers them in bowls
while singing lullabies
and when she has enough,
she drowns them in their sleep
with musk and sandalwood oil,
wraps them in pretty fabric
and sells them to tourists
seeking charms to protect themselves
from losing their money.
Posted on 06/04/2005
Copyright © 2022 Max Bouillet
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 06/05/05 at 01:33 AM|
Not sure, but this sounds like someone on drugs! Crackles with mystery and hallucinations!LOL!!
|Posted by Charles E Minshall on 06/05/05 at 04:28 AM|
To do voodoo, who do, you do? Fun poem Max, shades
of The Big Easy...Charlie
|Posted by Traci Mabats on 06/09/05 at 02:38 AM|
*would consider buying a charm to prevent herself from losing money to be in fact...losing money. Now shoes on the other hand ;)
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 06/09/05 at 01:11 PM|
your ironies are iron
and your wisdom is wise
and the vehicle of your words are fortunate
to have such a one as you at the helm.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 04/14/06 at 03:26 PM|
Quite a brilliant, spooky image - the last three lines keep me shaking and nodding my head. Oh, my!!! ain't it the truth.