. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Monday, July 8, 2013

Our Itch



Once you bit your dotted skin with canine fangs
       sunk behind lips black,
Where it rippled and burned you snipped
       to sooth the itch,
Through your thick fur you left a trail of saliva
       and the hair matted betwixt,
Whimpering and chasing rabbits but never sound enough
       to chase them far,
The red flesh below your jowls,
Dew claws like Egyptian earrings,
A wet nose at my elbow waiting for your cue to
       accompany Dylan’s sad reprise,
As if his voice were a full moon,
And a freight train was pulling into the stock yard,

But look, ho,
Now I am the madman uncontrolled,
My skin a thatch work of red runways for the
       talons dull beyond my cuticles,
Never a moment in peace,
A mountain range of red whelps, hills and valleys
       along the land mass of my flesh,
When one is satisfied another cries for relief,
Where I cannot reach they cry the loudest,
This body possessed with a devil on fire,
Oceans of insanity breed like rabbits in
       the confines of my skull,
They’ll find me howling at the moon,
And pulling the skin from my bones,

Yet look there,
You’re sleeping so peacefully tonight,
Dreaming away the mysteries of your love and loyalty,
Breathing softly and for the first time,
Soundly,

I have to wonder if for some reason
       God lifted that curse of endless itching
              from your black and white shoulders,
And placed it upon mine,
This misery,
This mania,
This delirium,
But there you are next to me,
Curled against my ribs,
I reach to scratch behind my knee
       raw from relentless fingernails,
And I think,
I will itch for a thousand years
       if I have to
              to enjoy this moment with you.

6.2013

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