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. :)
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