A river of faces
forms the procession.
Faces as stern as a corpse,
eyes glimmering
mint and pristine.
In a dark corner
I drink black tea
from my lover’s cup –
My eyelids fall
like the lid of a coffin
as I listen:
A thick fog of gossip
The stink of talk
A slice of shine
severs with the edge
of ascendancy.
A deep knock on planks
blond hair flops and spreads
like a beached jellyfish,
legs stark and gnarled.
The front. Thick green sweat. Condescending wet chops. Hot grease. All I need is cream all I got is foam. In the mouth of a hound. Brash motherfucker with a set of bone metal knuckles. Tense dog blending in with smoke and bricks. Harmless. Soft all the way through the inside. Sharp mask and erratic collar. War paint. Watching everyone get muzzled. Panicking over passing light-up cars. Crooked unremorseful uniform. Small Town is the name of a signpost shoved in a dry shallow hole. Disgusted underground kids. Manic youth confined in clinics. Big gap no exit. Blank off-white wall. Elaborate mural of boredom. Ok open up your skull. And as I stumble by an innocuous mutt on a leash I think damn he got fucked.
Andrew Spiess