Squalid Glass

Never tried it, but here we go.

(Oh, and the statue is from Ozymandias)


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SOC(k)


My brain is a hunk of beef
trapped in a ziplock bag.
It floats in a bowl, filled to brim,
wrapped in the plastic sack.

My brain will kiss the slab tonight –
it’s red but soon I’ll burn:
My coke-bottle love,
my linguini-haired friend –

excuse my brash interjection,
but your almonds look delicious –
brown but striped like tigers.
May I feel your crunch? Do you taste of sawdust?

Plath is in my kitchen –
her temple smells like cake.
How I wish to taste her scent
even as she bakes.

That statue in the desert
that stood for fortune dead
to me is but the meaning
of what I called my friend.

The undertakers gone now,
the mourners are in rainbows,
but still I rain, still I choke –
the drip drap plap on ground.

I wish to move from melancholy
to happy, pronounced beige,
but as you see my quatrains sing
then dampen on the page.