The Poet Armistead

The beads of your sweat dance As glitter in the dull candle light: Pooling in tiny wells of anticipation Purified in the heat of subtle terror. My beautiful centerpiece Trussed up securely A hungered entrée display Admired with heavy breaths, You're examined by ravenous eyes, Traced by the fingers of libidinous desire, For patience wears at starvation's tolerance. Let sharpened blade be unsheathed Let us feast on you To satiate this hunger Watch your warm entrails drip With the remaining lucid seconds. My pitiful meal, how shameful you've become Watching your heart stop beating in love's cold hand

No one digs in the corners
Where the smell festers deepest.
Their shovels just clang and clack
On the crumbled poured cement
That’s broken in the centre
Because it lifts easier
that grey concrete rubble bow

Where the walls join together,
Connected to the cold ground:
Below the record player,
That knew only but one song
At entirely the wrong speed:
Is where she lays, still waiting,
Still wasting, still wailing out.

No one will ever find her.
The ammonia stings their eyes
Should they wander close enough
To spot the fresh plaster marks,
Or the abandoned teddy
Adorned with a bow, alas,
No one digs in the corners.

The Poet Armistead

Yearly Archives: 2022

Feast on You

Corners