Don Klon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Poetry

Submitted: March 21, 2018

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Submitted: March 21, 2018

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Don Klon

By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright, 4/2009

 

Don Klon's my singular lover hence,

He sleeps with me entwined,

Snaps the clapper of my cracked brain bell, 

And massages my writhing mind

With Hell-foggy fingers, Addict wit.

While a cold, star-stabbing sky 

Flirts up a Rehabbed Moon,

I cycle my legs, in my Absinthe-green

Silk restless negligee,

My bed aching under the weight of Dark.

He stills the spinning of my orbit thoughts,

And flicks all my senses off.

'til I am locked with him,

In tune - A Twinning Thing, 

We're Tenuous Equilibrists,

Needing, not wanting each other's Need.

Klon's a jealous thug so 

He's slapped 20 pounds on gut

And butt, blurred my vision

So I can't see other men.

I admit he fades away my pain,

Arrests the dolor in my heart,

Quells the seizures in my brain,

And frees each strangling nerve

From the noose of Shrieks.

He holds a bevy of babes enthralled,

A teaser, romancer, a rogue, a rake.

It's easy to infatuate us with

His tranquilizing charms

And easy ingestion. We swallow his load.

He swallows us whole.

I've seen him on the grid-eyed streets

Of Baltimore, a decked out Pill Pimp,

A friend to whores, tweakers, addicts,

Drug slingers who'd shoot up their own blood,

If it'd give them an echo high.

His slick yellow Zoot Suit,

At ease in the slut-streaked streets,

And tony Realm of the Urban Flush.

Intoxicated with his Powers,

He is his own main Man.

Slicked brilliantined hair, 

Aftershave from the Afterlife.

Man whore, everyone passes him around;

He adores the stimulating rush of 

Our dire need. He's cheap, he's easy -

Who wouldn't fall in love with him?

On nights alone his Soul reflects

Upon whether his nature is for Lux

Or Pox, whether he chose this life

Or it chose him, that perhaps there

Might be something more to his Meaning

Than sluicing through the aching veins

And brains of the nervous and groaning Mad.

Still, it's a noble contribution,

Soothing neural static and delivering

Peace wherever it is needed, like an

Infatuated saint huffing up God's gas.

He can't exactly claim he's loved - or can he?

A healer or a jailer? A crutch or liberator?

An anodyne for fear or a stun gun for the mind?

Klon's a kept man, yeah. I store him

In my gold carapace pill box, enameled

With flowers, right next to my aspirin.

My loyal companion on journeys both

Astral and terrestrial. Little scored god,

Of the Tablet Set, whose gentle caress

Sometimes leaves me snoring.

Or reading the same lame lines,

Over and over 'til I realize

I'm only reading his mind and there's

Nothing written but one smoked black note

From a dead life's symphony.

Pain is exotic and demanding,

The Submission Magician,

Raking through my body like

The illusionist's sword slices through

The boxed girl. It wants all my attention

'til I am Pain's assistant Vixen.

I become Pain. It shoves everyone 

And everything off the stage.

Alone with Pain, my sadist Fate,

And all the sizzling Crazy God

Could fling forth from His Mind,

I sought respite from that Legend Man

Who shimmies down Insomnia Strip,

Searching for those Sick Souls craving Numb.

For thirteen years, Klon's been my 

Muse, my solace, my only common lover.

Cheater, betrayer, seducer, destroyer,

We'll stagger like two pirates to my grave end, 

My personal Gehenna Attendant.

He'll bury my statue with the Fire Bird,

For The Tenth Round Phoenix Act,

And combusting I, wet-feathered Babe,

Zip out of my life's cold ashes suit,

Flap Big Scot Free of him at last.


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