Wednesday, October 27, 2010


(18th century engraving)

He felt himself
Losing control, and told me to,
Before the change
Took hold of him –
With rage,
The moon did not need
To be full.
For he was full –
Full of betrayal,
Full of boiling blood
Spilled over boundaries.
He could roll back his clock
Before civilization
Rounded off his jagged edges,
But he could not
Keep himself
Buttoned in calm.

And I could not decide
What the word meant.
His voice, so hoarse and low,
Sandpaper scraped across
Steel cords.
Too tired and yet
On fire, “going again”
Although we’d pushed
Long past exhaustion.
Should I
Run on empty,
As they say?
Should I run a scam,
Fake my reaction?
Run my gesticulations
Up the flagpole,
And hope he salutes?

His beard
Begins to spread
Over his cheeks,
His throat;
His brow,
To overrun
His forehead.

I realize
The word was
But he is gripping
My wrist now,
His long sharp nails
Digging their trenches
In my flesh,
His palm ablaze
With more hair
Than my arm,
His hot breath
Close now to my throat.

My last thought:
Ginsberg never
Howled like this.

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

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