An Oyster Shell

“The eyes”,

the drunken shaman,

choked,

black stumped teeth,

alligator breath,

shaking a bone,

“sing the song of misery,

rejoice in fire,

revive the ghosts,

of women twisted in ecstasy,

create the mythology.”

My eyes,

framed by deep creases,

like those on the underside of a rattlesnake,

cut from the corner of blood-shot milkiness,

to die among grey thistle.

Bathed in scorpion’s venom.

A thousand beers and sleepless nights,

piss weak,

a shaman’s curse.

All the print,

on everything,

these days is too small.

Damn.

To pluck a new pair,

from a sleeping baby.

Or scoop fresh,

with an oyster shell,

from the skull of a stone drunk indian.

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Filed under ageing, outlaw poetry, poetry, Short stories and essays, Spirituality

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