Seth Elkins
|  | MATCHBOOK
rest is a fire
its been
screaming
from the underside of my bed
for years
crying for a
pillow
and a book
of matches
something to
accelerate decomposition
with all the comforts of home,
seamed to
my ear with a ten year binged breath
and the skeletal remains
of a four
legged journal and a john carpenter
sight
(i can
see
in(to) the mouth of madness)
all the wants and hungers
cut out of plastic forks and
paper plates
snowflakes
hanging from coat hanger nightingale songs
about death
and the long,
long nap in the gutter after bar
soaking in a halo of tears
cast down
(but not for a lack of want) and
glittering on the faces of black
and blued angels
and their accurately fore(casted)
wings
(a daffodil in one hand)
(a machete in
the other)
every bottle down is (n't it) another reason to stay
(?)
in this
slurred speech wink at the leftovers down the
hall
(the slight of hand
must have been worth the)
(wait)
we(')ll see if i care...
you
kinow,
(shhhh)
i bet it's a toss up
(gasp!)
store-bought and lost rotations of teeth and factory line
fingers
the things (we) left (un)said
have flooded this place
with
spilled milk and
a strong affliction for dollar pints
a
sore cheek and
a headache
that never got around to aching until
it was looking for the time to start over
on television
in the city
in full color
but only as much as your eyes
squeaking around in their sockets
just
looking for a place to rest,
the parts we can't sleep through
anymore
there is nothing better to say
to the words we depart
than to forget the walking dead
all they need is a pillow
a book of matches
and some ground cover(ed)
in the quilts we
never got around
to making something warmer out of
just a place
to shiver
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