The Face of Death

Face of Death

A certain double-breasted bag-toter
Totters toward a balding muse.
She, red-haired proliferator,
Makes his dreams uncommon
With a mound, abstract, but dense.

She hails from Pennsylvania,
Chocolate covered glasses
Melting into cheeks
Above a smile; two hands
Stuffed in black wool pockets.

Now she laughs at fashion,
Leaks another glimpse: vanishes
Before the double-breasted
Has a chance to grab a piece.
A wake of snow entices.

Our gentle bag-toter
Unprepared to face
Her face of death
But hot to chase the rest,
Lunges, parries, turns into

The safety of a library,
Where he dreams the Muzak
Version of Beethoven’s Fifth:
Imagines Ludwig working up
Five thousand RPMs six feet under.

A syphilitic soul,
Nonetheless adventurous,
Ludwig forges through Bavaria’s bedrock,
Digging a tunnel to her door.
This attracts the double-breasted.

Allowed, by mere coincidence,
To follow Ludwig’s lead,
Double-breasted brings his bag along.
The face of death inspires
But demands sacrifices

Beyond double-breasted’s realm.
He may have to hang on
For dear life. He may have to
Get naked, be inspected
And ridiculed before gaining access.

The bag lends moral support.
“Ludwig is probably playing a prank,”
He thinks, as subconscious yearnings
Drag him through town,
Around rules, above convention,

Into the laughing, bouncing-butted
Body with the face of death.
She snarls. His actions verify
What she suspects: a gap between
Reality and his brain. She blends

Into his dream, asks him what he wants.
“Now I know your body,
It’s better than your face,
We felt good together,
Got some drugs around the place?”

This takes her by surprise,
So she pours a mushroom tea
And offers tea and oreos
Which he readily accepts.
“What makes you care about me?”

Spouts the face of death.
“My friend Ludwig led me here
After you had vanished.
He knows what I should do,
He wants me to do you.”

She often has to sit and dream
Of proper male behavior,
So she teases him along.
“You want me so much,
But you hang there unappealing.

Why don’t you masturbate
So we can go another round?”
Toter stiffened to the test,
And said, with a wry smile,
“Death on the doorstep.”

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1987. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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