NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL

by on September 6, 2009 :: 0 comments

Your cocoa
has taken on
the hue of nail clippings.

Your shoe
can’t stir
the floor.

And tongues
just bluff
what they are touching.

Likewise,
lips are merely
grief kept busy.

Try to be yourself,
I dare you,
not when you mimic
sad souls taking poison

or, slumped in chair,
ape fallen idols
with the windows closed
and gas turned on.

And yet
your body’s fixed
by your survival.
First bone,
then flesh,
then the mind too.

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