Night Blossom
in the geometric days of old
circles etched our n-dimensional world
in kaleidoscopic reverie they bounced
and popped one another
pie piece-shaped mouths
consuming ghosts of haunting memories
and stillborn children should be eaten, too
though we think it taboo
reabsorption, or
waste not, want not
rainclouds do it all the time
in grand manner
with light and booms
bouncing from earth to the heavens
eating the ether they spill
they do not oppose eachother
as Mr. Digit and Ms. Pinky (of the Left Hand Digits) do
who only take and receive
giving remains conceptual
though this right hand (you see) gives freely
this flower I picked, just for you
that bloomed, bloody and full, within me
and the battery acid I sat in (when the moon was new)
didnąt burn as much
as when you wasted my night blossom
left it on the rocky grey sands
you wouldnąt eat it or help it grow
instead, it became a raisin of itself
shriveled under the harsh man-god Sun
dead by your passive disgrace and disgust
Chris Rosakranse
back
next
home
|