I'm Not Here AnymoreA Poem by Drifting Blue...not with a bang, but with a whimper...EliotSay a prayer from the gothic cathedral The witch’s wounds are in her thighs
Buried in folds of flesh like sedimentary layers
Attracting all manner of fossils and fish.
We are not the arbiters of Armageddon
But its victims.
Its photo finished glossy surface
Holds depths you’ll never know
Holds feasts of crows
Ministers of time travel
And hot properties for sale
In the lava lamp waste of its battle.
—Death drags his feet a moment
But not to worry
He’ll be along shortly
Dragging the other horsemen—
I’m not holding out for more money
Just enough time to spend in thought
In lust and bestial aftertastes
That paint the tongue like a palette.
Woolen mittens hold hands with rubber gloves
And cast dispersions on the nobility
Making a hasty stab at love
Ending in endless hostility.
Enter the elevator and what do you hear?
Juice Newton is the seventh floor
With her endless hair and corny vocals
Who played the tambourine but did not dance.
—We heard her and cried real tears
Blasting out our sinuses like trumpeter swans on crack
Anything to kill the vibe
Letting loose the balloon of swill heaped helium high—
You utter the apocalypse in a sigh
A whisper of ill aspect
Of prime rib and chicklets
Buried in afterthoughts of afterbirth
The after burners graze the hereafter.
All our casual violence makes hay
With all the soldiers that came to save
All the children in the way
Of bombs and gods of terminal days
Of mysteries and misconceptions here to stay
As the petty thieves of life make their getaway.
–Intentions never meant what they said
Nor did the words left unspoken
But in the end it’s like Dylan said:
“Everything is broken”—
© 2008 Drifting BlueReviews
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Added on June 26, 2008AuthorDrifting BlueBad Lands, NCAboutPoet, Short Story writer. Insane. Little by little, we reveal everything. The itch is just too great to be anonymous. Who I am is what I write and vice versa. You'll see. Riding The Waterfall: The W.. more..Writing
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