Friday, March 10, 2006

the foot

his foot slid down, breaking what little harmony
could be found here, within this paper box mortared
breaking the folds twists holding him to the bed

slid down until his toes touched the startled
stone, saying nothing to me, whispering idly
furtively, sweetly noxious sweetly magicked

calumnies, a movement of sallow conspiracy
a grasp, a pandering of pitiable transgression
suggesting that i would contribute to this

mise-en-scene, gothic ill-timed melodrama
that i would listen to the asides, follow staging
of a devise that could hardly bring me glory

slid down until i heard the gasping breaths
of the audience, expectant sniggards from
the trade the shops the jolly-come-latelies

straining forward in velvet comfort, aroused
by their scent of titillation, aroused that i
would succumb, their private their own their son


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