Last Light, With Her By the Library
Inside fleshy walls, wallowing in youth,
lava coarses corrosive through peeled licorice
onward, fleeing the thundering stone
vacillating at the center of a man slugging
elderberry wine, to become both numb and Dionysus.
Yellow convertibles park on brown-banged boulevards
obstructing the ravishing, glacial blue hands. They stretch
unassuming, but firmly grab my empty arms.
Mannequin pale, those twin starved orphans,
offered the chance to grow into men, to feel
rushing gales of breath, trembling limbs of love!
Goodness, grace incarnate in a smile. Blue jeaned
angel, the deliverance of a self-loathing leper
naked in the shadows of his own shortcomings.
Ravaged, I stand stoic; an amorous, wounded statue
on call before her, a tragic hero in vain,
battered in body, in spirit, in moonstruck mind,
ill with the drawing force of four hoarse
scotch-swigging demons, poisonous jealousy
of a starry eyed Italian gondola captain. Who am longing I but
Nobody, wishing for a crack to melt into, or
a shatterproof heart.
Copyright © Chris Kane Jr. | Year Posted 2013
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