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Pricking Through The Pores

Pricking Through the Pores

Methodically the mantis clings to the backsliding screened rear door praying in the sanctuary where bumbles hummed about nothing, where dandelions swayed with a teasing purr. A hypnotized bandit drowns in a sun bath; a broken wishbone gets buried alive, while a violating stench stems from tar graffiti on totems that surround the suburban morbid view. A mocking bird dons a vaudevillian garb and goes through twenty-six costume changes. Silencing applause from an audience of Siamese cats named Ying and Yang, a sixty-five Mustang rusted out of mischief and daydreams of copper toned mid-drifts gone, meanwhile, I’m wagging away, well hung on Jung, face down on a strapless lounge. Hector snarls beneath the chain link, slanted eyes pierced, squinting like Clint. Mourning dove indulges in an afternoon drink, lashes out as if to wink, just making sure. The brink of sin tin cans have been kicked into submission. Naked bottle tops with “Whistle Top Pop Shop” painted blow the necks needing to be fulfilled. Still the mantis awaits his fate, as a cold draft of screams comes through the pores of the screen, twitching in fear, wishing it were a chameleon, so that it may disappear, or just blend in. A famished stick figure abstracted from what was familiar, wishes it were a caterpillar of black and orange so that it may change and admire it’s new wet wings. The mockingbird meditates a Miles long jig, Mourning dove takes another swig of gin. Snap dragons singe along the fence seducing you with their color.Hector is silent. His stare leers like a scorn vigilante collared by insanity, he sharpens his cuspids on the fence sapient waits for revenge with his pointed ears pinned down to deafen the sound. Mr. Mantis canvases, advances toward the pulpit to preach his vow of silence rapidly rubbing his hands together hoping to devour something slightly sour, and the day climbs toward the noon hour, a gallery of bronze statues melt down, fading beneath a sheath of a retractable truth, as the garden sanctuary of milk thistles weaken, the creak in the stair can be heard through the caverns of artificially sweet shag throw rugs. Hector bathes his profile in dirt, his slanted eyes closing, flies dance on his tongue. Wrapped in an old thumb sucking blanket, splinted hands remove earth. The shedding of the sin, the mantis kneels, peeling off his disguise, with empathetic eyes, sight impaled by shame, his remains cling, still praying.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: memory
Kelly Kurt 28 March 2015
A wonderfully crafted, visually descriptive poem. Thank you for sharing.
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