DON'T LOOK TOO CLOSE (Poetic Trilogy)
by Gary
Ugly and corroded,
Leaking and ruining
Everything it touches,
Corrupting your skin.
Rip out the offensive
Instrument, leave
Nothing but a slim
Connection to other deep,
Forbidden places.
Strip the grimy patch,
Destroy the offending
Crumbling base.
Cleansed, an unsoiled
Berth to rest upon.
A bright ring to hold
Brass bolts and nuts,
Screwed to the floor,
Secure to the floor,
To hold the implement.
Sticky yellow wax,
Bronze, nearly gold,
Warm to the touch,
The ring waiting
For cold insertion.
Thrust hard, harder,
Against the inverted
Bowl, twisting firmly
To spread the wax,
Ooze the heated wax.
Ratchet the nuts,
Pulling the vessel
Tight against the floor,
Tight to its new bed
Waiting for your skin.
Cold well water
Fills the new tank,
Fluids to cleanse
The used bowl
When you finish.
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Caged,
Waiting patiently
Since I set it in the garage,
Traded to replace one much more benign.
The beast knows,
Patient,
Waiting caged,
My nightmares hold me
From releasing it to claw and chew and feed.
The beast sits,
Hungry,
Knowing patience,
Letting me bid my time
Before I mount it on its throne to serve me.
Craftsman,
Teacher,
Do-it-your-selfer,
Wage-slave,
Apprentice;
The beast has bit them all.
Will I be any different.
*
The beast perches,
Uncaged,
Sucking power
Through the umbilical cord
I have provided to feed its hunger.
The beast feeds,
Never sated,
As I supply piece after piece
Of carefully stained and measured stock.
The beast uncaged,
Growls,
Chewing each stalk
With vigor as they are fed into his teeth.
Waiting for
Lack of concentration, worried about my last critique,
Anger, cutting the same piece five times and still getting the corners
wrong,
three pieces of molding turned to useless scrap,
Hunger, interested more in what I will eat than caution,
Simple carelessness, an all too common state,
The beast knows.
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Through the crabapple planted
Beneath the window.
Memories rushing back
With the flurry
Of crows
Rising from a garbage pit.
Hours, minutes, seconds
Ticking by,
Taking.
We marveled at her grace,
Sliding,
Stepping,
Dancing
Across the stone cold floor.
Perfect,
Envied by every eye,
Elf-pale, chalk white,
We called her Moon,
Ghost,
Ice.
She gathered suitors,
Harvesting and tasting each
Lightly.
She picked me,
Leaving the others to rot on sour ground.
We were quicker to join,
Nearly quicker to wed.
Laying naked in the sweat and stink
Of Golden Nugget sheets,
She announced she did not love me,
Our marriage only there to give her
A house,
Easy coupling,
Steady earnings,
A servant to fetch her shoes and beer.
Lying sleepless, watching rotten apples
Falling from a dying tree;
Hours, minutes, seconds
Ticking by,
A minute scrap
Of my soul
Falling with each
Splat.
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© 1999 Gary (GaryDawg@msn.com)
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