In the handsome dark, we fumble for doubloons
lying dead on the pavement.
Little minted mirrors of gold, magenta, turquoise, emerald, and
polished purple riot like the wine soaking into the costumed madness
around us: this swirling, detonated rainbow
of beads, feathers, fire, and flesh. It is fringed, open-mouthed, and
dripping beautiful fermented stink from its lips.
My friend’s eyes are cups full of Bacchus. He is
tumbled down and tousled, a mess of chocolate hair
shaggier than the god on the silver coins. Lanky
and full of drunken wisdom, he dispenses
strands of shiny bead joy to women in every direction like
a pale, toothpick Buddha: mouth agape, piping laughter
out into the air. I wonder if William Blake knows that
somebody stole his piper and dumped him
onto this dirty, coin-strewn asphalt, into the veins
of this insane parade.
But I won’t tell him right now. This man
is a nonpareil, a child king,
too much universe six feet tall and rising inside
an unsteady eddy already shuddering, packed up tight and ready to
jettison its heart in pieces in all directions. And I
want him here. Fuck water. We are fire. We are
the last of Heaven’s belly emptied out onto silver streets
that spread out to dry up the drowning and the tears. Eat, drink,
and be merry: for tomorrow, we crucify.
Now, tonight is a heavy bank, soggy and gravid
with wonder. We’ll pull away from the colored arms of the riot,
steal down streets, pour magic down our throats
and into our bellies. In back alleys behind brick
full of junk, smoke, and wet, we’ll hear
strumpets being blown, listen furtively to fantastic queens on
four-inch glitter stilts giving up their frenzied music of orgasm
into the dark. I know that the mist will descend and drown our eyes,
and tomorrow, we will forget how we climbed
onto the back of blood and dug our nails in:
but I will read the dried red under my fingers
and know what delicious sins we committed in the name
of life. Eat, drink, and be merry. I hear tomorrow’s nails, teeth bared,
poised and ready above our palms.
© 2010 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written for Read Write Poem Prompt #118: Digging. This was a wordle prompt, and I managed to use a good percentage of the words. I hope you enjoy reading this.
And BTW, I think you should try Wordle out yourself. It’s really awesome.