The ghosts are hungry – Robert Alan Rife

 

The ghosts are hungry for more.
But chiming bells overflow the glass
and teeth chatter in the gray sun.
There is music in the gravel tide,
washing up like red medicine –
bloodied capsules of cotton-talk,
gauze-word, suture-see. It only
gags the throat of a traffic laden wood.
Clouds crippled by the old songs, are still
just clouds.

Can you taste the buds of blue, jagged
sweat germinating tomorrow’s winter
garden, stuffed in a teapot on top of your lone
May Pole? Maybe the French kiss
nightmare taught a thing or two about that
unnamed wishing well world?

With hunched-back scar-tissue tongue
you lasso the last, unlucky
stragglers from the playground of ordinary
sights, you suck the juice out of the sunlight.
No more wrought-iron tail feathers for
this sidewinder peasant.

Suckling the teat of frozen landscapes, you
always forgot what nourished most
until they circle back round and
stump you from behind –
where all the best tales are.

©2014 by R. A. Rife

 

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