Monday, January 8, 2018

Suicide Beard 
Once we go beyond logic,
and have faith in the suicide beard,
we can accept that the luscious little ladies
will spot the white claws
in the fur and run, for the nearest fountain of youth,
as that is their privilege.

And as this seine
of aging bearded men tightens
around the one lost little lamb, squeezing
all the love out of her, we will run our fingers
through these white swords,
and she will run her fingers

through these white swords,
drawing kisses, never blood,
& the suicide beard
will dream of pennies on the eyes,
as the nubiles haul ass
through the valley of the shadow of beard.

The doctor’d prescribed a pill, it’d killed the crocodile
in my hip. Instead, it turned the rest of my body into a swamp. 
So I’d given up the swamp-pills, and nature breathed new life
into the crock.  I’d gone a week with the crock in my hip pocket,
till I just had to get away from his gnawing companionship. Popped
a pill and all was well.  Till the dizziness returned. I started fantasizing
about just hacking the leg off.  Kept thinking about that
mythological bottle of booze: the civil war solution. 
Those few numbing swigs of whiskey, as some sawbones
amputates the drumstick, dipped in the gangrene
flavored batter.  I fantasized about going on Disability, 
buying a cheap van, stealing a page from Steinbeck
and traveling the US of A .


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