Clean to the Bone

by

Doug Larson

Deep as bone,
beneath his blood-filled flesh
rest secret stores of vile fantasies
unfulfilled, the light of day
a stranger to the dreams of night
that dance upon the moonbeams bright,
in wicked passion plays.

Beneath his skin,
his memories in sour breath
reveal his taste for ugliness,
surreal in a sensual way,
his monsters draped in lingerie
parade slavishly before their King;
their genitalia on display.

In his pith
he feels their pain, laments
their grief; tortured distress
in pixie smells to fill his aching head.
He drinks in passionate embrace
with thirsty gulps, their swelling juices;
nectar for his shriveled heart.

In his mouth
a desert boils, blistering
his tongue, yet even now his lips are wet
with liquors spent in lurid ways.
He counts the minutes, hours, days
like grains of sand to blow on winds
in stinging clouds so far away.

His time is gone.
His horrid flesh dissolved away
by worms and beetles and decay,
the depth of bone, reveals at last
his hidden truth now on display,
cleansed by the fire of the sun,
revealed to the light of day.

Bleach-white bones
in structured order, elegant
in their array upon the hungry soil,
perverse no more, nothing left to spoil
the innocence and purity of childhood dreams.
His meatless jawbone lectures silent
lessons in anatomy.

Poetry Competition

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Dragon Flight
by: Sunnyone
from: Stoke-On-Trent, England, UK

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