#604

most nights – but not all
a banshee’s face shows
abrupt as an exiled druid
scaring off foul beasts, as
surprising to boot – anyway
the horror shows…

the face was once my own
a crest representing a
pure type of life in times
of innocent chains –
and not too many minutes of
these (same) ole days

the face is not me any more,
cast off like forgotten
quarters in your pocket, or
under the refrigerator
it falls into a deep-blue type
of black and down into the
misery of a typical wishing well

her hair waves in single strands,
the wind from behind lifting locks
as erect cobras, venom-spitting and
all of that

but, she only spits out a silent grey
light. the one I let guide me for
way too long. it blinks.

I’ve a mongoose spirit,
and I yell
“go fuck yourself, fragile yellow!”
…I’ve a mongoose spirit

I awoke – this is the best dream.

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