The night before She stands inside The bulging, burgeoning Closet. What will I be tomorrow? Pink and pearls? Grey and gold? Will she dress To impress or To cover? There is always so Much To cover. Morning rises. Shower not bath Never bath To sit so still so long In water so hot With time, Well, No. Oh, no. Just No. Not when there is The Mirror To be faced The Mirror Whose price inflates Whose toll increases With every passing year. To lift the droop Suspend the sag To fill the sallow hollows That darken and deepen With every lie To plump the lips Worn out Worn thin By each apology never made By every promise forgotten To span the crevasse The ever-widening crevasse Between who she Is And who she Claims To be. There is no pink Light enough There is no ink Dark enough To fill the expanse Of that limitless Void. Still she tries. Each morning she tries. Spackling the wrinkles With new and heavier Layers Of hypocrisy, Watching it settle Into the lines Like fine French arsenic Feeding flesh to bone. "You still got it, Sister!" She winks at the glass that withers Beneath her gaze. Then gathering the blackened bits Of her soul into a green velvet bag, She slithers behind the latest Luxury wheel, turning the key, Shaking her head, "Late again". Knowing He Waits Obvious and open Atop her slick office desk Flayed and splayed, Calling Unheeded Unheard Forsaken.
I wrap it in my arms
Cherishing the child
I could never quite
At times I relinquish
Watch it shrink and dwindle and
to almost nothing
Then comes fear
Who am I
What am I
And so I feed it
Until it grows
Until it swells
Until it covers
Suffocating the host
In the guise of
Armor over armor
Steel over steel
a hackneyed trite bromidic phrase we are become we are become we are be come but, oh shame on you shame on you shame on you for making me believe for working so hard at making me believe for being such A Good Liar your body full of Old Man Strength your words full of Young Man Charm yes shame shame shame on you, Papi you oh so Graven image my Death lies too beyond that line across that hill down that road you ride to ward me never so close never so far away my Death rises flat head hooded Siddhartha's Cobra an evanculous embrace cooing me close with the crook of each bend my Death is kinder than you it has promised Nothing and shall deliver All just as it did in Dachau when your fingers closed so lovingly so cravenly around my throat At the End of the Day At the End of the Day At the End of the Day
The whirring purr of night
Falls thick across my chest
Pausing to lick with scratchy
Tongue the hot, salty trail from
Eye to ear.
He understands even less than
I this hard wind blowing
Cold from the East. So used have
We become to warm and loving
There is no love tonight.
This night belongs not to
Valentine but to Sebastian.
To twisted torsos and bloody
Arrows. To blackened eyes
Staring blindly, begging God
To release a shredded
Pocketknife picking at the sideways 8. Though mine is not. So. So, the blood pricks vertically, that is up and down, running the length like
tears from a hollow blue eye. Apollo never fails me. In his musical aspect at least. As the god of fortune, of prophecy. Not
so much. No, not so much at all. But in this, in this, this music. Yes, oh, yes, godlike, he is. For how could I have continued, one
rickety foot in front of the other, as it were, along the bone- spiked back of what was left of life, without this. This Music.
With these bobbles in the dark. Anything is possible. Dying in your arms. Yes, that, even that is possible.
The bodies of small men. Compact. Compartmentalized. Sharpened staves from the tips of my fingers slicing sinewy scars into their closely packed
flesh. Closely packed. Roomless flesh. So many of them marked. That way. Marked. One hidden blue track. And there is
nothing, nothing, nothing, no- thing to match, not ever, to match, the sad, swollen rolling legato of what we might have been.
Temple veins popping with gold. Treasure. Trappings. Snares. And we are undone forever. Forever. Always. For always. Undone.
So they tell me. Maybe one day. Maybe one day. We shall rise. In a howling, a howling, a howling, a screaming
murmuration we shall rise. Then, not even the bones of the ancients, not even the smoke of their prayers before dawn, will tether us to the
Earth. ©sdrogers 24 october 2014
There are endings. Then there are Endings. Thirty days of silence Fall from the window Of my throat in a Shroud of linen so soiled Not even Blue Can cleanse it. Thirty years of silence Stretch from the ledge Of my heart in a Frozen sea so vast Not even Red Can forge it. I am come awake now, Awash in Indigo A black-eye bruise Where once there was So much laughter. It is the Ending And soon all will be The not quite white Grey Of winter. ©sdrogers 14 october 2014
Oh, let me write no more of you let me write instead of him his sadness his strength his talent for shepherding the disparate the dissolute the un invited let me write no more of her no let me for get you both writhing wild upon the floor the hyena stripes of her hair throttling us all no let me write instead of his legs long and lean and hooked across whatever he holds dear locked around whatever he refuses to lose Thunder Forth! yes, rain there should be rain rolling like a low-rider bass along the avenue but there is only cloud-grey ice and a sliver of yellow pooling in perfect Euclidean symmetry along a bottom of temperant glass ©sdrogers 3 october 2014