The awkward hands, clinging hair,
constricted collar, cod fish stare
belie those plump pursed lips
begging a beaded line
drawn just above.
Pardon me dear, I may have just the thing,
a quite different narrow fellow in the grass
to make your acquaintance.
You need not breach the boundary,
(I know you never leave), self-condemned
to daily deaths inside your father’s home.
So rouge your chalky cheeks,
you see,
I fancy pallid painted spinsters
doubled, arched,
panting, pushing.
Too tawdry for your taste?
Consider your art! And
splendid transcendence
for aching earthbound souls,
nobodies, to the admiring bog.
You see,
I too dwell in a prison
of my devise. So consider,
my sweet: eternity is stillness,
and a fly buzz,
when death so kindly stops for us.

08/03/2005

Posted on 08/03/2005
Copyright © 2025 David Hill