a divine blacksmith didn't forge a winged heart of gold,
to soothe the burn of others.
The artist didn't mold my body into a scratching post chant,
where others can shed their dying dream ghosts
my heart was conceived from the sable fingertips of Dali,
a flint heart with a sheen of midnight black matches
straddling devil's dunes, in an upside down desert...
my heart wields a wicked chain, has selfish yellow teeth
it billows like an old factory,
discharging microscopic monsters,
easter island heads
the bones of carbon and oxygen
a pure oasis of death...
if you climb these ragged dunes
ride the melting clock
come take a nibble
turn from a flower into a flamed out rock.
Copyright © Anthony Slausen