Burgeoning Sandpaper
- Kevin Peters
My tongue slivered down the nape of the
octagon glass, and I briefly felt foolish. Staring
at the resounding assemblage of cardiac pumps
reflected back at me from the mirror behind the taps.
An older man caught the visual reverberation of my eye
while I looked through the empty octagon, trying to
let the image repeat and become redundant. He didn’t
seem to notice the twine tied round my head.
In this a deer went through the glass to throttle cranial
columns. There’s a crest upon it. I’ve only known
two people to cut their eye, and it happened in the same
week, the overwrought tightening of an E-string as
the sirens watched, and walking down the stairs while
the wrestlers tumbled upwards. It’s all about the eyes,
someone told me once.
Holding that shadow his wife returned, a brook stumbling
over the melting rocks. I should’ve added another string
to wrestle in their adobe abode, that would be something
that the blossomed would do right, because I think I feel it.
But, wallowing in casket aged brine
as the ex-patriots of a belated birthday
loop looplooplooplooplooploop
timpani in an eardrum seemed a pleasant melancholy.
What did my mother sing to me as a child for Christmas?
Jovial voices and no decorations. The bartender
reminded me of that amateur lady of ill repute films
that used to enfold herself in me above the sheets,
fully clothed, but I’d rather behold Mary Warren,
who fell in love with the student director of
the Crucible. Foolishness, regret, are headstrong
depths of shading. I’m still directing those voices
that should have abandoned the catwalk. Sassafras leaves
are no comfort for nepotism, and I’d be unaware
of such lurid discrepancies that have been
quartered in order. Farewell. Said Mary Warren
as she pretends to be catatonic when I see her lying there.
- Kevin Peters
My tongue slivered down the nape of the
octagon glass, and I briefly felt foolish. Staring
at the resounding assemblage of cardiac pumps
reflected back at me from the mirror behind the taps.
An older man caught the visual reverberation of my eye
while I looked through the empty octagon, trying to
let the image repeat and become redundant. He didn’t
seem to notice the twine tied round my head.
In this a deer went through the glass to throttle cranial
columns. There’s a crest upon it. I’ve only known
two people to cut their eye, and it happened in the same
week, the overwrought tightening of an E-string as
the sirens watched, and walking down the stairs while
the wrestlers tumbled upwards. It’s all about the eyes,
someone told me once.
Holding that shadow his wife returned, a brook stumbling
over the melting rocks. I should’ve added another string
to wrestle in their adobe abode, that would be something
that the blossomed would do right, because I think I feel it.
But, wallowing in casket aged brine
as the ex-patriots of a belated birthday
loop looplooplooplooplooploop
timpani in an eardrum seemed a pleasant melancholy.
What did my mother sing to me as a child for Christmas?
Jovial voices and no decorations. The bartender
reminded me of that amateur lady of ill repute films
that used to enfold herself in me above the sheets,
fully clothed, but I’d rather behold Mary Warren,
who fell in love with the student director of
the Crucible. Foolishness, regret, are headstrong
depths of shading. I’m still directing those voices
that should have abandoned the catwalk. Sassafras leaves
are no comfort for nepotism, and I’d be unaware
of such lurid discrepancies that have been
quartered in order. Farewell. Said Mary Warren
as she pretends to be catatonic when I see her lying there.