Maybe she is an angel
maybe she is not
I’m just not sure
I’ve seen her now and then
walking through that slender passage
that exits out of the train station
the one where no one usually goes
because it’s fetid and smells foul
and is too dark,
the one where the water drips from the ceiling
drip drop, drip drop;
she’s always there with her little sheep
the one that has a face identical to her own –
skinless, bony, and hollow.
Moving downwards
toward a dream
that has lured me through a door
cozy and cream colored
enveloping me in softness and warmth
flesh pleasurably disintegrating
until there’s nothing left
but my own bones
deep, deep, down.
An audience of skeletons
that clap their hands and make
a scraping sound
like fingernails on a chalk board
ten times over;
and all the while
the clattering of their teeth
like a fly
buzzing around
in my left ear.
Why would you want
to be a skeleton, he said
that’s just stupid,
after all
who feels sorry for skeletons?
– matt at shadow of iris
skeletonsii
Excellent recording…
Thank you, Kitty. Maybe I’ll start a podcast!