Blue-skinned lilacs exhale liquor & Lethe
& TV screens, & huff carbon monoxide.
I'm still alive, while beauties drift, white moons,
this night sans ces étoiles as Baudelaire wished;
which seeps through Janet's nervous system. Here's Dante
plucking the suicidal blooms in Hell-- But
I want to grow all navel, like a calyx
& exhale liquor & Lethe & TV screens.
Hamlet cogitates bodkins, inhaling flowers
Mother planted as bulbs. He grows all navel
& huffs the carbon monoxide. Tea leaves bleed
black through a brass infuser, & streets black out
where beauties drift, white moons. But what pianos
could phrase Last Rose of Summer like my sister's?
Meantime, the Mister, cadaverous drunk on the lawn,
that night sans ces étoiles as Baudelaire wished,
reeked, flowery, of Sneaky Pete & the Bijou theater,
his flesh gone orange as poppies Mother planted
as bulbs. Here's Dante & beauties on blacked-out streets,
& what pianos! The radio drifts between talk shows
like sister's rubato fingers, or Janet's nerves.
I'm still alive, although I've grown all calyx
& also cadaverous drunk as the Bijou theater.
The blue-skinned lilacs exhale liquor & Lethe.
Jack Hayes
© 2010
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