so instead I write of solitary confinement.
and the memory of waterfalls, jumping
off the cliff to feel weightless and the hope
there will be enough water down below.
how it all starts there and rolls back
to the source, the sound of ancient
monkeys, hooting back and forth.
and unexpected light that startles
like a lucid robe, wrapping around
your figure as you find yourself
lassoed, marked and highlighted,
a Day-Glo finger tracing and caressing
before swallowing you whole.
a deer sipping prisms beneath green
covers before the fireworks go.
and the bodies on display.
the one posing like a star athlete on a Wheaties box.
so we can get a look at each and every muscle
to see how we work.
and the baby born without a head
and each and every bone laid on a endless table.
where the local Necrophiliac drools.
black lips, pallid cheeks running like hose
dripping bluish fluid onto a neatly tucked-in napkin.
and the one of the two teenage lovers
killed by a psycho cop voyeur
as they felt the rush of hormones
overlooking the lake there
immortalized like Romeo and Juliet
organs preserved at their most vital.
this is how passion looks
before life gets a hold of it.
Penis a wild Boletes mushroom
worms stretching toward the clouds
hearts Everlast boxing gloves.
and the concession area
where they pay to taste some exotic meat
from some other time like fresh monkey brains
all the way from China
as they circle round for the grand finale
to bash in the head of the Necrophiliac
and pluck out his for posterity.
and all the alien sounds outside
lips muttering under black hoods
and the cat diving sharply into my pelvis
like a hungry lover intent on reaching something.
and your eyes, the slit in the dark solitary door
your mouth, the water in my bowl
our bodies finally finding each other
the first, the last, the only meal.


�2006 by Ray Sweatman