The proud cockles wave
from the shoreline disturbing
the dandelion slumber which had settled
over my cauterized consciousness.
[I seem to recall]
Where do you cry when the funny
man in your brain has stopped
laughing?
[waves crashing, hard saliva on dentures]
Don't ever let them see you
sweat, particularly if
they are invertebrates preoccupied
with a singularly nasty fingernail
fetish, and florid ambitions
[tines and melted butter]
to appropriate pernicious sin
swelling in their mucus membranes.
[sounds of teeth gnashing]
Ghosts of extravagance swelter-
swarm, an ephemeral dervish
of culinary vengeance and primordial
stomach aches, at the raw bar.
[sinews dispossessed]
in the hot seat Mr. Muscle squirms
through the torpor induced by the lemon juice
rambling deliriously that he is
not who the specters would
have him be.
[screams silenced by smiling lips]
Solemnly sitting in my corner, celery
sticks and appendix in hand,
I clearly observe their palates,
which are empty, having
been long since pillaged of their jade
taste buds and ruby blossoms,
parched and dark as those violated
Egyptian desert sarcophagi.
Copyright © 2002 by John Edward Lawson