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
[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.
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