This is

the last hit
bowl packed
the pipe sings Her
heavy-belly song
as
she sags
to candlelit thrombol
deep
ruddy notes

Soon, my lips
says Mr. Moustache, soon
blackened
by the sour resin drip

teeth and eye, forehead
proclamations of Doom
riding insect wings
yellow breath
screaming animal insults
at the camera tele
-vising
Freak Show
Ringling Brothers Reality
madness
and I have tickets!

if only I
light this rocket and
blast-off
out my head up
through floors above
ceiling
shingle
starry sky beyond
and
leave this tiny blue speck
to explore
familiar shadows

for now I sit
waiting for Light to receive
my nakedness

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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