Saturday, February 23, 2013
Dance of Drunkards
The Wicked Witch of the West
was but a patsy
for the evil goody two shoes Gilda
perpetrates in perpetuity
on munchkins blissfully unaware.
"It's not easy being green"
is not Kermit's lament alone
and the companionship of flying monkeys
are a cold comfort indeed.
Thoughts of the shifting moralities
of these Ozraelites
haunt me needlessly,
like all good hauntings should.
Meanwhile, the cold rain
of February
bleeds wet upon the overcoat
as I remember Father
and his perpetual legs-akimbo
dance of drunkards,
steps as ageless as cirrhosis
scarring time
like the wizard that he was.
"Ignore the man behind the curtain throwing up onto his slacks.
The great and powerful Chuck has spoken."
Labels:
abstract,
absurdist.whining,
aging,
alcoholism,
fragment,
poem,
poetry
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment