Those Cold Hands Poem by RIC BASTASA

his hands are cold
forget ice, it is inferior
imagine the hands of
the dead
touching you on one
of those blackout nights
at 3 a.m.
where silence is like
a stainless knife,

he feels death is near
but he is arrogant
he has no fear for his heart
is a drum
beating and beating memories
of his sex-filled life
the cat is inferior
upon his shamelessness
he will both die and not die
he lives
and that is for certain
to the eyes of his unbroken
seeds.