Sestina #1 in Poetry

Sardonic symphony rendered like a slimy peach–
Fresh and sweet; I like mine refined, neat.
Twist twice, remove. I abhor the news.
Mark those who call them booze.
For I shall pelt them with “boo“‘s until, like pins, they stick
Stuck in the mud– blood runs down my lip.

Bourbon burns bitter caramel to my lip.
Still, I only sip. But, please don’t eat my giant peach.
I’ll eat when stomach mightn’t feel hit with a stick.
And, I’ll admit, I used to think it was neat.
But, now, I don’t eat the meat. I drink the booze.
Don’t speak to my habit. I abhor the news.

Turn off the TV. Turn off the news.
I remember the minute when I bit my lip.
That infinite instant– I started drinking the booze.
That morning sun– red and yellow– a ripened peach.
Those two rods in the earth of a Manhattan. Neat.
Came tumbling down. In my mind does that image stick.

Vomit in mouth. Out mouth. On wall. Stick.
Off now. Fuck you. Fuck the news.
How fun! What luck! Life tied up neat!
Slosh Jack in cup does the schmuck with a broken lip.
That cut lip makes pussy drip like a pungent peach.
Pungent smell, bleeding heart, soaking hair– in booze.

In Bruges, dead, bloated body– pruned by bleach and booze.
Beached whale harpooned by a driftwood’s stick.
Stuck like teeth in a moldy peach.
l”Woman, Dead at Age 22”– Sexy, sexy is the news.
At the thought of it, I nip my lip
and distill the rot from my drink. I like it neat.

Put Dilaudid in my cup. Make it up, neat.
Runny yellow breath reeks still with the scent of puss and booze.
l”Retreat from the rim thy broken lip!”
Take a dagger and, in your throat, make it stick!
I’ll hide my body, so’s to keep it off the news.
I won’t have them seem me like Marilyn– bruised– like a peach.

I had life neat but, for each, they’ll make it stick.
Turn to booze and pray quick before what comes for you is news.
Soon, they’ll cut your virgin lip and let your virgin blood ooze. Ooh, you juicy peach.

Last updated April 25, 2018