Eat Boiled Crow

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
An autopsy in reverse but a crime passionnel calling for its pound of flesh! A sweet talking philandering husband tries in vain to reason with his own tortured demise - his wife's bloodlust for revenge listens to his pleas and allusions for redemption. She doesn't believe him and tires of his crocodile tears . . . his wordplay is not enough!

Submitted: October 01, 2019

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Submitted: October 01, 2019

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This crystal ball, not I, to see which road your heart will take

'Tis easy to see between those eyes into a house full of unrestrained jealousies

O brain so blind to reason, with rattle in its tail, will, into the skillet, sizzle the verjuice that do make the nectar of the maple scream

Now rock those acrimonies to sleep - better to be a zephyr than a hurricane!

What if I give you leave to paradise where colours and smells bright and fragrant as heaven never fade and songbirds make you smile?

Here then is the first pail of the year:

As alkali is to acid - so to are the creamy beestings that soothe so many a barbed spleen

O praise the Earth's waxing star - for you could dance round the maypole

I beseech you!

Your mind is a forge and foundry - a crucible that do pour rivers of molten steel into the jaws of steamhammers . . .

And there they do mischief with metal soft as toffee

But when shaped and cooled would make the old Pear of Anguish look friendly

 

Before you, on this chair, I am bound - you drugged me!

No more my stomach grows fat on pork knuckle and mead

No more I lie with the houris in the harem nextdoor

O fie on thee, wretch! - ouch, you cosh me!

This pomegranate has split to the cry of the nightjar and delirium is a harp inside this fractured skull!

I speak feeling of dread: a ribcage on a brazier? My fat, it wicks a flame!

'Neath His celestial mane - I call for clemency!

Lord, an armet now to shield me!

Look mildly 'pon this scene and I go with much terror and pain

O arrest this heart with a thunderclap and shrivel it to a sticky prune!

 

Wife! O wife!

Must it be so that you take pleasure in the majesty of my suffering?

What has wrought your fettle so much that you dare to wield, smote - leave an ashen and pallid death?

We are all moonstruck by the stellar tyrant

Upon this desert town, infernal sun, you glare, you snurl

Your reins - they tug at the welkin so scorched:

Heat and dust - your sirocco sweeps in to flamenco and raze!

O pyres and urns leaveth behind the airborne armies whose wrath looted our bairns

Anon, the most unforgiving greed to veins 'neath taut hides

Taketh you leprous swarms . . . our last threadbare donkeys!

 

To fear is to fear you will not be swift:

To make me the masterpiece of bloody butchery

Quick then, like an owl on a fieldmouse

For in nature, death strikes without warning and is deft at ending the senses

O to die with the albatross out there on the brine cracks the whip of brevity

O tempest, 'gainst the barque you whet your teeth

Mariner - ragdoll in the swell - your fate is well-greased

Here she comes to out my candles!

Amigos, carrion are we - convex on the surface of a vulture's eye

O fie on her! I could have slashed the dewlap of the wizened gammer

Indeed, there was murder on the turrets of my patience . . .

So close the trespassing gleam of my blade above the pickled features of a snoring pig!

So easily - a voicebox de-throated - a shuck'd oyster for a lame coyote!

 

Listen, in the rearview mirror the world is out of sync

Like the bullrush, it gathers rusts and smuts in the suety rhynes of life

O forgive me - mercy!

Better a spine roughly hewn on sandstone than to drown out there on the bucking fleece where every fathom is a ladder to the crabs . . .

(She took the water from the coals, threw the bucket and poached these eyes in their sockets.)

"No more you strut with the other cockrels at dawn . . . For in the headlights, there is a pile of rubble, waiting for me to put you to bed with a pickaxe and a shovel!"

A harbour for meat flies . . . I was dead!

 

She is happy!

Me a wraith? Does raise the hackles

Who did thresh the husk for the grain - toiled so sweet idylls and betrothal I gave to thee?

She puts me out for the ravens!

Am I a hairy woubit, a sallow looper - those edible jewels feasting on morning dew?

What a most belligerent pedigree is the rosy-bossom'd who come with armoured stings!

Nay for me, perhaps, a ghost I am, it is true . . . but this is not finished!

 


© Copyright 2019 Jobe Rubens. All rights reserved.

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