The Dresser
Tom Hamilton
The human girls are posing like billiard pockets.
Clogging by the juke box little things that stop a drain.
They are things you see, they work, they hurt.
They are not as infallible as their pinup counterparts.
There are many levers inside them.
Somet things you want, some things you don't.
I'd disgrace myself and them by calling a hole. But not so.
Home.
The red numbers on my clock
stare out with barbarous, subnatural eyes.
Supplying me with this demon dream:
I can see you sitting, serenely at your vanity.
Your shoulders squared likke the Queen of Diamonds.
I'm hypnotized by the sanctity streaking your hair.
But you comb out damp holiness, it's dank and unwanted.
I rush slowly from the bed to bed you to keep it,
and kneel at your side like an old time proposal.
Hoping to worship and touch your fabric static,
But nmy words chirp out as as nonsensical bird calls,
and you stand up like a protester as a wedding.
I reach for the life jacket of your nightgown,
but you fade from my fist to an opposite mist,
moving through me as if I were made out of pollen.
Your dawn crayon eyes
only focused on fashion.
You walk to the dresser.
The day passes fast and blurry like subway scenery.
Fool Hall: If I beebee my eyes to distant heart and squint.
I could imaginea fat, four-eyed 'you' on that wall
chundering a wondering with the other beckon calls.
or maybe.. maybe..
brushing those strands of rarity so precious.
selecting sweet gold from the various cosmetics,
as if you could add to your monsterous beauty
or if there was a dream where you could see me...
sliding up to the bar like tightening a tie.
The inhuman girls are shrieking, giggling and wrestling,
I look at the stinking drink in my tentacle.
Sober, tired and full but I can't go...
Home.
I sit in fractured scents by teh shattered shard vanity,
looking for a peaceful piece among busted reflections.
One with an image of you by the dresser.
