Friday, 6 September 2013

Late at the house of Mezcal and Pistachio


Midnight.
Tequila gone
and the
pistachios done.
Their little brown
mussel shells
split and emptied,
bar the
stubborn ones.

Too early for sleep
I looked at the worm,
the worm looked at me.
Not tempting.
But I couldn't let it be,
so ate the mother anyway.

"...and so it was that later
as the ceiling flew away..."

I dreamed of the bottle
floating out on a
burgundy ocean
under a setting sun
bumping to the shore
of a baked land
where a cute black kid
took off the lid,
held the maggot
in the palm of his
small, sandy hand,
and wondered at the message,
what it said - or what it hid.





*First published in 'The Broadsheet'  9/2013









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