A queen folds her hands
behind her head
and strikes a pose
in front of a monolith;
she’s a ghost
covered in strands of fog
that bind her
out there where the earth
is so hot beneath
that just above
it is cracking.
Showering
before a cheering crowd
naked as a jaybird
bringing pressure to bear
she comes
shouting up at me
like the devil’s spawn
straight out of hell,
not even a towel
wrapped around her tush
or even a tattoo
poking her long nails into my chest
small pokes
that sink deep
even as the mass audience
roars and says
the time for talk
is over.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs_and_shrapnel_xxxiii
[Inspired by the work of Peter Gric.]
