Look a Saint in the Eye---Halloween poem--revised
Posted: October 29th, 2009, 3:41 pm
Look a Saint in the Eye
For Halloween I shall appear
as your terror, your hunger
and your lust twisted intuition
sold by senses you cannot trust
The costume is simple
I dress as a cruel mirror
If you look I become a photograph
of your pain in its harshest light
you'll see me as the monster that I am
the ghost of your indecency
the memory makes you feel
feel like a frightened child
soiled, shaking, embarrassed
the party begins when it's later than you think
just before you've had too much to drink
after the evening was young and your feet
are killing you from not dancing
for supper: the eyeballs of the blind
coward's guts served at room temperature
or chilled if you prefer and corn on the macabre
my razor-blade candies
slice the kiddies' tongues
a trick within a treat the punch
peyote, piss and belladonna
and a bunch of pills of indeterminate description
for which my demons have no prescription
dry ice boils in a smoking cackle
like the sound of love strangling to death
you will detest my pantomime and my cologne
which makes the corpses groan like blues on the rag
or the practiced moan of memory, whores trying
not to get bored while listing their indiscretions
I sweat and the greasepaint
runs into my mouth tasting
tasting of your nether juice
milked from places dark and ashamed
not uttered, unnamed, secret as what
causes your toes to grip the icy sheets
when alone not lonely, a trick within a treat
wasted but not unused, a chill beneath your heat
You'll pray for the morning
of All Hallows Day
but after last night and the insults you enjoyed,
how could you look a saint in the eye?
For Halloween I shall appear
as your terror, your hunger
and your lust twisted intuition
sold by senses you cannot trust
The costume is simple
I dress as a cruel mirror
If you look I become a photograph
of your pain in its harshest light
you'll see me as the monster that I am
the ghost of your indecency
the memory makes you feel
feel like a frightened child
soiled, shaking, embarrassed
the party begins when it's later than you think
just before you've had too much to drink
after the evening was young and your feet
are killing you from not dancing
for supper: the eyeballs of the blind
coward's guts served at room temperature
or chilled if you prefer and corn on the macabre
my razor-blade candies
slice the kiddies' tongues
a trick within a treat the punch
peyote, piss and belladonna
and a bunch of pills of indeterminate description
for which my demons have no prescription
dry ice boils in a smoking cackle
like the sound of love strangling to death
you will detest my pantomime and my cologne
which makes the corpses groan like blues on the rag
or the practiced moan of memory, whores trying
not to get bored while listing their indiscretions
I sweat and the greasepaint
runs into my mouth tasting
tasting of your nether juice
milked from places dark and ashamed
not uttered, unnamed, secret as what
causes your toes to grip the icy sheets
when alone not lonely, a trick within a treat
wasted but not unused, a chill beneath your heat
You'll pray for the morning
of All Hallows Day
but after last night and the insults you enjoyed,
how could you look a saint in the eye?
