Sirens

you have the thick moist laugh of girls with garlic
wreaths in your armpits and cloves on your tongues,
dissolving curves and sinews into dust and songs
no life of tangerines and concubines for you,
woven free of skins and let loose along the beach;
leaves and beetroots pass your dry fingers, slender with clay
and sweet like daisy petioles, while the plush
apocalypse of song commences sweetly, pushing
curdled notes through the sun-slapped palms

and in the rich shepherd’s tomb, in the bucolic nightmare
the heroine screams as the icicle plunges
from the second story of the Hermitage while
the shards scatter near some breathless
pigeons and a doughy boy in mittens; his mother
laughs uncertainly, moves by, but you –
you have the thick moist laugh of girls with guile

meanwhile, the sailors sip their beers
their cheeks tremble, their end is small
and glorious, they whip flirtatiously against the rocks
the crumbled body in a question mark, spine bent
on reefs of drooling lava, the lazy parrots hovering
the wilted stamen shuffles pondward, stirred
by all the lust, the rogue in feint, the smudge
of crimson lipstick on a dead man’s shirt,
a thousand foremasts spear the dune
a thousand dogs grow mottled in the sand
a thousand bones still cradled for the final squeeze
the flower’s pistil roughly pulled
the song suspended, dripping lusty notes
Mars scowling, his barren womb translucent

Sirens

Seva

Joined December 2007

  • Artist
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