Rack & ruin
by Stan Rogal
[ poetry - march 08 ]
What has a mad ring to it recalls the missing link: King Kong or an other ape shit horror
off his nut & dropt 21 grams. Weight loss slight, sure, & naming what's
barely shown
pent up to begin, flutters, as: never took to heart, quivered, crackt; put the
soul on ice.
Name only what's erred at the ring: shunt pain of misplaced heart roused to rouse bodies
subject to suggestion then made suggestive: breasts laid bare; souls racked & ruined.
Knowing my own eye waits at the keyhole longing for some divided lunch, say: lost
highway of Szechuan pine nuts & boiled bull tongue rolled out & argued at partitions in
the illogic, or bleak rubber soul dusted with flour & doused in red rum at the chow down.
Eating each other out being most accurate rejects "nay," oh my; works warts & all
with bad skin, slim lips, tiny tits to layer ill in a hard ring: shun pain & grind out a kill.
Cherchez la femme stalls where no amie waits starkers on the director's couch primed to
French a corpse. Day bids adieu as all inch toward breakdown, tho, even lower hell ain't
a'hiring any third-rate con but, tends milder, vis-à-vis: slip the finger; pullthe wool over.
What's in a name, O, ? Any mildewed rose would smell as. say, laurel in a harried ring:
a hole devoid of all cinch that blossoms once then snuffs within a week of sniffing out.
