the light in my kitchen.A Poem by h d e rushin
The white moon, even thru the pollutant is efflorescence the first time.
The second time it's inapplicably small to nettle the suitor, snug in their drawer beds/
an argonaut colander poses with the float of ribbon and sevres then looses it's mache handle like an airplane made of crumbs.
I smile a season of beesting like parturition a toothless, tiny grebe wth my lobed toes.
As a little boy, I assigned genders to forks and spoons. The fork was a married woman, making mistakes each
minute with the cake in her hair; bare striped like electric wire. Do tell the yarn spin to stop, stop
the plume mascara, vertically stacked brown on a black lash, the tide is a near miss, aluminum jell as earrings of napalm
to burn, burn the little necks in their prune canticle worship. The spoon was always a good and honest man.
The butter knife, so brave, made birthmarks on a wavy coat but little else. The babys spoon was a good genie
though in her pornographic, low blouse aroused the old men, then portioned out
her green sex like a soup made of frogs and cloth flavoring.
Dear Santa: grant me another wish. © 2012 h d e rushin |
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Added on November 9, 2012Last Updated on November 9, 2012 Author
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