This Servitude

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE yep, it's a bitch, and little turquoise birdies flutter and sing elsewhere . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
This Servitude
Before the Fall, the final sickness of manic fever
Burning blisters in the mouth of dawn, the devil's phone
Screeching in time with facial twitches, the blizzard
Of memory frostbiting the fragile buds of restoration
Forbiding all input but the bantering elves of insomnia,
The mad reel of monochromatic dreams flickering
With indecipherable subtitles and cryptic laughter,
Came the woman, and the boy who came to love her,
And turquoise was her favorite color.
April's fickle demons blew the chanting of her name
Into his brain, beneath the sheets divine carnality came,
And the boy was but a stream, waveless and green,
Who by the whimsical grace of Furies and Fates
Was given to nurse upon the breast of a turquoise sea.
He suckled long and deep their brief, enchanted spring-
Time, and from the perfumed crush of springtime's body
The boy came to know the dark intimacy of "smother,"
And turquoise was her favorite color.
So it is now written, for the boy cannot speak,
The rusted windpipes have sprung a language leak,
Let the sad wincings of the Word stand as memorial,
(Wet petals on a pillow, wet as their once mingled sweat),
Black ash of abandoned poems the element of burial,
The untainted blood of his worship drips forever forth
As dust of incomplete dreams dies in her candleflames.
Bedecked in flesh: master and mother, lizard and lover,
And turquoise was her favorite color.
The boy chose never to leave the turquoise room,
Wandered long in the turquoise fog, couldn't leave it,
Attempted to choose, weakened, just couldn't leave it,
Limped with his coffee cup and his turquoise cane
And his silver-maned age, gazed into her picture,
An ancient and oft-visited pose, pale callous fingers
Clutching a turquoise rose, blew a kiss with wistful
Lips. This servitude has been an angel's gift,
And turquoise was her favorite color.