He sits, wrapped in blankets
his mother knit
three days un-showered
and his chest heaves
with meaningless breaths.

The pile of books, tossed about
on the side table, dusty sheet
after sheet marked with exclamations,
screaming with the genius
of other depressives, other wilted
lovers and abandoned dreamers.

The apartment, a still-life photo op,
a capture of vacant occupancy…
a chair piled with high-priced clothes
(result of countless retail-therapy trips),
sour milk in the fridge, empty wine bottles
stacked on the counters, bar.
Look at the shadows they cast!

Is it all just a portrait?
When does the window-frame
become the gilded gold-leafed artifact,
or the sleek metal trim with perfect cast
matted curtains? Is he just a 2010 Pijak Absintu,
sitting and sipping his new world wine,

unshaved, with sallow eyes, while the ghost
of dreamt childhood bride sits in the easy chair,
frumpy, with small, drooped tits and split-ends?
Let the cafe be, this story is not what it seems.
His green fairy has slenderer hips, a broader back,
lithe thighs and a square jaw. Not a temptress--
just a curse of the past. The muse, the clock-maker,

the paintbrush. And the razor-blade, the rooftop,
the cilice belt, the chains. Our Pijak Vino, with pen
in hand, writes. Trying to capture, on recycled, yellowed
paper the colors of loss. Black is too cliche;
red screams of passion; blue is, well, blue.

03/08/2010

Posted on 05/12/2010
Copyright © 2026 S. Pelham Flood