Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Other One

Death numbs and disorganizes me
But the other is a motherfucker no matter how you look at it

Death can be kind and writes poetry
With his long white fingers
He says, “I must take her to the parlor.” He is polite
While the other eats blood in gobs, mouthfuls of tissues disintegrates and erodes sucks and belches burps and laughs with a mouth like a fat fish

Death took my mother for a walk in the garden
She wore pink cotton pajamas and held his arm
There were lanterns made of rice paper
The tress were hung with cow bells
Somewhere someone was singing

The other one lay curled in my mother’s belly trying to make her his puppet
She refused
Bargained cordially with Death
Who bowed his head and nodded
Then walked off whistling softly
the winner with a petal in his tailcoat pocket

5 comments:

  1. "Death numbs and disorganizes me"
    A friend of mine died a few days ago; I heard about it just before I went out at night - and still went out -
    I somehow still can't believe she died. Something else may have happened to her, but she can't be dead.

    Blogging about her and blogging about my huge ballet poster which has just been posted on walls - the living and the dead, all the things I can do and she's gone and it's over.

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  2. http://www.afiori.com/
    I am sorry for your loss Love flb

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  3. Smudge

    I no longer know
    how to write
    her bones have come to lie
    inside me
    dry as the leaves she pillowed
    crumbly as the cake she used
    to favor.

    It’s her voice
    no sound
    not even lips
    just a blob
    an empty spot between ribs
    a faint film of dirt
    as on a dirty car mirror
    which like all glass
    you look at into the past

    Vision is funny
    it’s always the past we see
    ten nanoseconds ago
    you were right here
    I saw you with my own jelly eye
    ten years thirty
    you were flesh
    you were breath
    you were more
    than a smudge of memory

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  4. This. You always amaze me and I love this.

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