Greetings, Mr. Sandman

Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, April 12, 2012 Under: Poetry

Greetings, Mr. Sandman

The Turk fell into the sandpit
the sound was like a bag of rice plopping onto a pregnant belly
Split into quarts, drizzled over the sides
Balsamic in the blood drum, making tea dry & bitter
his vital organs and organic equilibrium
Spilled forth into the Aqaba sea
Which was the only “blue” that eyes could savor for a long stretch
Too much made you thirsty, city-sick
The desert does have a way of burying the deceased in a day’s time
It took his aspirations, yes it did
Confiscated it in a swift but brutal power grab of moisture
The bronze boots he flew about with did little for heat relief

chalked mouth for a chalk outline
A detective’s story erased by the erosion of the wind

Words left his mouth as if unspoken
Saliva, larva of tongue, dark crevices left as evidence
That a man once boomed from a knowledge-drilling concave
Where rivers of phosphate
and serpents of Arabic languages roamed

Sanskrit tablets written in octagonal whispers
Hissed about the shapeliness of shapeless landscapes
A farm that only grew grains of sand
Always happening upon travellers during a drought
drinking mirages with dry ice
Sipping the traditional universe from a silver tablespoon
It is ceremonial to do so

Shadows take form

The monster of every desert
is the towering, barebacked lack of water

Don’t be so polite to the blasted thing

only slay it
when you cross it


April 2012

In : Poetry 

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