New poem: Chow Locales
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Chow Locales
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2023-03-02
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***
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Last night to myself I thought
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in midst of writing drought
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while laying myself down in bed,
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"When will I ever feel better again?"
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Swinging on the crests of zig-zag Sowelo,
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landing on all fours as low
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as they'll go,
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close to the ground.
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I wake up at midnight in a sweat.
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"Just a dream; no need to fret."
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Crawled out of bed
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on dog hair-frosted floor
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with thrashing hunger too loud to ignore.
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My brain'd make me eat an entire damn pizza
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if I weren't too much of a coward
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to operate the oven at this ungodly hour,
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and even then, when all's said'n'done
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and I've been abandoned by feral fervor,
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my stomach would probably either vomit all out or rupture.
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Lover takes in her hands my jaw,
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peels back my lips to see my fangs long.
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My fingers around her wrists, trembles.
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Pinpricks of pupils. Fear of going feral.
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"Desperate devouring is a fashion you wear well."
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Jormungandr and Ouroboros,
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masters of yoga, flexible enough to hold the pose
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of curling around to bite their own tails.
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I'd maybe get halfway there and fail,
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collapse in a crumpled heap on the ground.
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There are easier ways to have my foot in my mouth.
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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