Poppies, red and pretty be…
Intensely fantasial,
as they be malignant
like Autumns leaves
in the grip of Winter.
Self-inflicted disease,
despite outward signs,
the abstract dreams,
the tolling of bells
in the silence of night,
that deafen sprite ears,
stun equilibrium,
fork the numb tongue,
herniating the pores
of your apothecaried Brain.
And the syringes you stole
out the bowels of the clinic,
during a ‘trip’ thru’ your slanted Mind.
……….Did you really not know you were dying?
Poppies, red and pretty be…
Such a mantra you flew
off the wings of strange seriphs-
in guise, fallen angels
from the depths of Hades,
tho’ you called it, ‘Elysium’,
as your cankered mouth,
exposed your tracked under-tongue.
Tell me how do you feel, now…,
Not to worry…
Time will relieve you
and all this shall pass
but, if no…Ahhh,
you’re just one prick away
from that place where you sit
at the helm of your kingdom,
as god of your dazed”underworld” –
……………………………………… …..,
and the sex is sufeit
‘tween the flaming teaspoons;
and chimeric guests and hosts,
confusing ‘wants’ and ‘needs’
’til time ran your table
like nine-ball with a Shark
Did you think you wouldn’t’scratch’?
Poppies, red and pretty be…
The metamorphosis is a bitch
chords of breath choking hard,
and thank God for this,
for there be no other part
of your body than this
that can raise itself up sustainingly.
You place your head
in your cold swatted hands,
fingers gripping your hair;
virility lost,
your arteries pulsing madly.
And you find yourself hiding
from mirrors, as they-
can look right back at you,
making denial all the more difficult;
making you wonder
how your Floridian tan
has turned a sick pallid ash.
Damn the Rush, Damn your substanced self!
Did you really think you could soften the ‘Crash’?
Poppies, red and pretty be…
Breath be done; still you lay,
I stare at your eyelids
pinched yet closed.
I want to ask questions; ,
want to curse your life
want to ask if you’d do it all over again’,
was the thrill worth the means of the’endz’?
Perhaps you dreamt of black limousines,
being carried ’round in a dark, wood box
to a field composed of stone and silence,
where prayers be offered high over you,
in moist dirt void of smile and poppies.
My turn, now, to drop that sweatheart rose,
on the wood as they everso slowly lower –
your bone pertruding ash-grey flesh
whose decomposition
was complete, long, long ago
and well ahead
of the last rose petals
that stain the pine in permanence –
from their own rigor-mortis;
And it’s done, Amen.
And, you thought you’d never die this way, did you?
Original Post….09-12-12
Revised/Reposted 02-28 16
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