drafts...

*
DAYS AWAY

Days away. The lazy orchestra
lip-syncs the sounds of its instruments,
the audience itself gawks in vain
at an apparition of kindred yawns. In
the perfect parable every letter
is equal to an alphabet.

Days away. Last night someone scraped
the paint off Ivan Albright's verminous
portrait of Dorian Gray and they
injected it into my eyes neck
and every feature. Buboes
pustule pouches blistered the lips
that bussed Bosie buff. MGM
commissioned it for the 1948
film, he stayed young and spoiled
while his picture impugned, while
a gleaming palette knife cued each glop
of dull oils into their title role.

Days away. A state of oasis is the sun
in enervation, the lowest ebb
of encroachment when the desert
is around one, inching closer with
each footstep took. The solitary
palmtree shrivels, the waterhole
shrinks to a pinhole in a mask
worn once to assist desire.

Days away. On his deathbed
he wears summer clothes, out
of season to the end. Always
had to embarrassingly carry
his sweater where others strode
short-sleeves and free.

...[

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