Poem: Lying In Bed

Originally published in Wilderness House Literary Review, by one of my favorite editors, Irene Koronas.

Fly Well In the Dark,

Owl

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Lying In Bed

the ceiling knew the curse of sand,
slithered as he stared back
and spoke in stony jests.
it bared or hid its peekaboo runes,
no peace in the lobotomy,
salad of gestalts,
straitjacket of stucco.

febrile ants
battled germs of a gawking plague.
and the boiling skullmeal, and the screamless oatmeal,
spiced from infant to hearse.
dismembered sins
latched onto each other
so none of them could repent
or even cry.

it was a seduced waltz
that burst into cobweb roses.
shreds of petal and mask
forming scrappy jaws,
which thrusted like wolves:
everyone eating everything,
all of them in fact murderers,
victims and kitchen knives
trading place.



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