Newspaper Clippings of the Tempting Kind
With a head full of spice,
and rusty scissors of egotism,
he cuts out the grainy picture
from the newspaper, pinning it on his wall.
A shrine is built around this icon,
words, stale bread, discarded dust,
amount on the altar, as if
the picture could truly save souls
(and in particular, his).
He whispers to himself, half-formed hamlet:
"O cursed self spite,
was she born to set me right?"
His half mumbled prayers,
and burnt toast offerings,
may go unnoticed
to the sacred star,
pinned upon his wall,
that is his skull.
Then again, or so he thinks,
wishes, and would die for,
maybe the posted polaroid
of himself, is postered
upon the door of his most...
He hesitates,
draws a breath -
hits his hand hard
heavily on his hazy heart -
then denies those
immortal words, so they
cannot haunt he.
We all kill caterpillars,
before they can grow
and sprout butterfly wings
from dark brown cocoons and float free,
or spread the mocking markings
of the cliched melancholy death-moth.
Was it butterflies in his chest,
or death-moths unable to rest?
His room, now bare, is to know never now.