door cracked open
slightly ajar,
dance the lightning bugs flitting.
a deep red cellophane gloom settles
on the room. The blinds cast cell bars
across the wall.
Listening to the thrum of the amp
before it ignites its sound.
A steady static, then a high pitched
squeal tears the air in two and from between
the peeled wound he steps through, naked
but for a shawl laden with the metatron cube,
and the guitar strap over his right shoulder, the guitar covering his pubis.
His left hand lifts off the base and strikes a chord, tumbling into riff.
I nudge lightly on the cracked door to see his gleaming skin, sheened
with sweat, muscles twitching under red flesh as his fingers working up and
down the neck, working the strings, the hair on the back of my neck.
The door moves on me, it creeks and I stumble into the room/
the sound stops abruptly, the red cellophane eddies into a vapour and
dissipates into the aether, He spins,
"-Oh] ...I didn't see you there"
- fangs, and black nails retract into brown gums, and bloody cuticles
He turns to face the wall his chin at his chest, pushing down his chin
is absorbed into his chest and his skin ripples like a pond with the entrance
of a stone.
out of the whitening flesh hair sprouts, long and blonde, neck squelching like
mud as the bud of a head pushes up out of the coiling skin folds, until they are
pulled taught.
She turns, violet irises simmering into brown -
"Hey, baby!"
YOU ARE READING
She, Infinity
PoetryI mean to place sight within the constraints of sound and drive it into the bed rock, the foundation of feeling, literally rather than metaphorically.
