Member-only story
Day of the Dead
Poetry
Colors blend in a staccato sound. Synaesthesia all around.
Underground a steepling slide into unconsciousness.
Mixing senses, genders, dreams, mold the male it seems,
in that hat-trick-hubris-chit-chat mode women don’t grow old.
Poets bleed, speak-in-tongues, fiddle with their fingers,
compose the lyrics of a song.
Pain is not in doubt, though the landscape tastes muddied and drear,
oxen squeeze through the sun, like rain from the clouds of fear.
Lead the lost people into a government pound,
pleasing those in-post, punishing those with a frown.
For kindly equity with passion, and the mettle to wear out the sea,
like Samson in the synagogue, his hair down to his knees,
sticks an iron in his soul, shows his metal, then just leaves.
The devil’s in the detail, the congregation’s on their knees.
Poets bleed, speak-in-tongues, fiddle with their fingers,
Compose the lyrics of a song.
Pain is not in doubt, though the landscape tastes muddied and drear,
Oxen squeeze through the sun, like rain from the clouds of fear.
Lead the lost people into a government…
