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Going Home August 23, 2014

Posted by vscorpiozine in Veteran Poets.
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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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