Thursday, November 13, 2014

The Fix (poem)

Painting "Benefits Supervisor Sleeping" by Lucien Freud sold at Christie's NYC for $33.2 million in 2008.


Laughter booms in the heavens
where God lolls on Her settee,
head thrown back, mouth open,
needle plunged into the sacred
vein of Her perfect arm,
a Junkie hooked on Endings.

Like an assembly of crystals
in the casket of a teaspoon,
my end will come,
melt in the heat of a fickle moon,
without a glint of gold on the curled
finger of my clenched fist,
without a freckle scattered
across the nose of a child.

Let the storm clouds rumble
in caravans across the vista,
like Arab caftans billow black
on a Saharan horizon.
No gentle partings,
let the aspens twist on the mountain,
and shudder like dervishes.

When I die, let hail slap
against rock, icy hands beating
on stony hearts in applause.
My tears can't rust rock. I’ll dissolve
like snow in an eternal rush;
I’ll disappear in an avalanche
of searing relief.

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