04-26-2016, 03:17 AM
The Mask Beneath the Makeup
Pogo never caressed the dead boy
in the coffin, that was someone else
beneath the makeup. He won't bend
balloons into giraffes; he practices magic.
Under the popping heat, the fluorescent bulb
will float above you like an angel,
like an unspoken prayer. He will handcuff
you to a chair to see if you can escape,
and place a gag so that you cannot
call out to the crowd, who has seen this trick
thirty-two times before.
If he likes you, he will bend down
with pointed lips to give you a kiss,
uncuff your raw wrists, and you will lie
with him forever, beneath the floorboards,
your chest rising in shallow breaths.
Pogo never caressed the dead boy
in the coffin, that was someone else
beneath the makeup. He won't bend
balloons into giraffes; he practices magic.
Under the popping heat, the fluorescent bulb
will float above you like an angel,
like an unspoken prayer. He will handcuff
you to a chair to see if you can escape,
and place a gag so that you cannot
call out to the crowd, who has seen this trick
thirty-two times before.
If he likes you, he will bend down
with pointed lips to give you a kiss,
uncuff your raw wrists, and you will lie
with him forever, beneath the floorboards,
your chest rising in shallow breaths.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson