He’s brooding again—mechanical;
clockwork as he shakes off his favorite
death mask—
skims over the cold lobotomy of
the ice pick in the holster at his hip.

 

 

He ponders chemicals like the reaction

 

 

of hands brushing against
themselves; the same wispy hands,
outward now, reaching like cigar room
poetry…  “Les poèmes sont toujours des
épitaphes d'eux-mêmes!”

 

 

he rumbles through his ribs, a steady
moon settling about his ashen clothes
like a glowing smoke. I met him at a
séance—muttered “une chose mourante,”
as he smiled, and bowed.

 

 

I caught the glint of his sardonic smile

 

 

 

as he pardoned his hushed
excitement, his white hand folding around
mine like an early
grave around silk flowers—poppy
in a congregation of soft lillium.

 

 

 

He reached for the planchette like he
reaches for a scalpel; a shadow hovering
with approximations; he’s haunted
skin before. And I blushed. He noticed…
“Comment trouvez-vous le loup si sensuel?”

 

 

Tonight, he sits in silent tantrum,

 

 

like God caked in blood. He looks like
taxidermy; stoic; stale, and the moon is frowning;
slipping behind a cloud.
“You’ll grow older, ma chérie,” he sighs,
as I come closer to replace the moon.