Her Split Tongue Flickering Like a Flame Against Soft Ideas
written by: Bogdan Dragos
@1_dr_bogdan
daily
she would take a
long, long
bath or
shower
and then walk
naked into
the living room
sit on the
tall
wooden chair
and play her
violin
until her skin
and dark, long
hair would
dry
she looked like
a flawless
sculpture photographed
by a black and
white
camera
It was hard to
call her real
but there she
was
and the music played
and the dust motes
danced around
her
and landed like in
a divine game of
musical chairs
they fought for
the privilege to land
in her hair
on her shoulders
her breasts
her feet
and the luckiest of
the lucky
would stick to her
wet eyelashes
but even to die
on the floor
below her was a
privilege
She liked death. Loved
it so much that
one day she bit
into the strings
of the violin
and broke them
and tied them
around her slim
throat
The final bath
colored the
black and white
picture
with a world of
redness
and then she never
showed up
again. The dust motes
miss her
I miss
her
my poems miss
her music
The new one is
less human
and doesn’t bathe
she’s got blood
and semen in her
hair
and her scales
are sweating wine foam
she doesn’t play
the violin
but runs her vile mouth
and touches
herself on the chair,
her split tongue
flickering like a flame
against
soft ideas
She’s after hardcore concepts
Wants guts and
blood
and murder
and mindless violence
and suffering
I think…
I think
we’ll get along
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