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Going Home August 23, 2014

Posted by vscorpiozine in Veteran Poets.

Going Home

Ghede, the night sun, in his top hat.
Mariette in pig’s blood.
It’s not human.
It won’t last long.
It’ll last forever.
When I feel surrounded by mannequins with perfect lives,
I turn to you–
a shaved man in a trough of water,
a hyperactive hippie in plaid shirt,
some politically incorrect woman
at a sewing machine.
Classic movie dialogue (this reel)-
“That’s what I do, I fuck.”
We laugh, and hang up the phone,
paying homage to
an adolescent male cartoon character
trapped in the body of a 30 year old woman.
The night is young.
If I dodge hypo needles
in Hollywood Blvd. Squat,
I relish the memories, the blood and guts.
If I’m sandwiched in between Ken and Barbie
and Barbie to the 2nd power,
I want to run home to your outcast arms,
relive every sigh, every sour note.
Years of hypnotherapy couldn’t make me forget
the sight of a Tasmanian devil on crack
or a human toad,
but you could.


Copyright 1993, 2005 Jade Blackmore



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