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.”


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