Thirty

As thin as water Swimming in the rampant blood clots of ice Lumps and warts, primordial abomination in an absinthe glass Down in one and down with thirty. Those filthy hands The snail paths which ooze from each digit. To touch. To touch. Saccharine words wrapped up in sugar trails Never close enough to the real thing to be mistaken We are not quite short-sighted enough to blend the blurs of Little hands; dirty bloody hands. Wash the clinging stench off But filth will linger for an eternity under fingernails, under piers and prominade pretences The world in a box for that one woman. A soul; a crucifix of thirty, a fine daisy Chain of woven skins and notches, bite marks. Those apple love hearts Miniscule in comparison. O, Greek god! The chorus calls The angry Nazi blue, Prussia in droplets; those ink-wells of sulphur Brilliant blonde, magnificence in porcelein. Brainwaves thin as water Those little demons; Succubus, Siren! Lillith? Dragging at your closet walls You whore. _ This poem earned an Honourable Mention in the member contest "Something Wicked This Way Comes" housed here at the soup and hosted by Deborah Guzzi. :)