The What of Things

*Image found HERE

The What of Things

Open a dictionary
and look up disaster.
It’s Monday,
my right hand
grips the teaspoon,
my left hand
sends the archduke
to explore the wound.
An exhibit of my voice
pounds my gut
and I ask no one in particular
why do I always sound
just like
a child, begging for a mercy kill.
a junction
of oregano, magenta lace skirts
drooping to the floor,
dripping sorrow down
into the mausoleum of the carpet,
one knife for chicken breasts, one for
potatoes, one for butter, one for peaches,
names like tremolo,
like angel corpses
falling of the edge of a broken lip
into the mass grave of wherevers floor;
my appartment with no doors,
my soul is dead, and bored
from mundane chores
of sweeping, and raking, and picking and taking
and splicing the sunshine like
A and B and O, like
make up, for the preacher,
like secretaring for ghosts,
like wallowing in the heroine of the guitar
at eight in the morning, like
Mary’s bloody lamb
with the bowels out for pie
and rejuvenation potions,
like crosswords and spreadsheets,
like fresh bedsheets,
like looking left, looking right, like bending over, like
smelling the lavender,like
crushing some in your pocket,
like cutting a strand of hair
and prisoning it in a locket,
like living, but
waiting
to die.

~ by Oloriel on August 21, 2017.