Tea Party and Other Poems

Perhaps

Perhaps tomorrow,

When the cups have fallen asleep,

When the cold has chewed

At my fingers,

When the graves have turned silent,

Perhaps then it shall come,

The bloat feeling of

Overindulged madness

Mixed with the faraway taste

Of almonds and peppermint.

It was never a game,

But a tormenting trick that

Had haunted others so long ago,

When there were such things

As one-eyed idiots

And a lonely man

Who exchanged his crew

For his name.

Perhaps tomorrow,

Too much sweet spite and

Rotting grudges

Will have consumed me

Not quite whole,

But enough so that all is left

Are two feet that have treaded

Not far enough from an unnamed starting point.

Perhaps the half-eaten fingers

Will also be spared,

Dragging delights like opened wounds,

Or ruining the forensics investigation

Of a crime scene involving

A cup of tea,

A flying pig and

A lonely statue,

That was not sculpted out of stone,

But of something softer.

Perhaps tomorrow,

Everything will finally sink into

A multiverse,

That had started to grow at a corner

Of my bedroom,

But grew too fast and too wide.

Perhaps then,

My feet and half-eaten fingers,

Will fall into the hands of

An unidentified saint,

Who ran out of peppermint

and almonds.