Friday, December 5, 2014

the fate of a retired writer
in the sun
skin blistered with the accumulation of accomplishments
the liver shot, the eye turned gray
the hair a metallic halo
declaring perpetual sainthood -
what strange gods has that atrophied
tongue tasted?
What ecstasies the withered body
sampled in the catacombs of cell
and sentence?
Surely the retired writer has descended
to the deep grottos
where the mysteries of the flesh
and spirit are celebrated
smelled the burning stench of herbs
and seen the mutating shadows
of the gods at war & play -

This goes without saying.

But the particular archaic vintage
of the wine consumed
and the particular orifices delved
in the sacral grove
and the certain stone upon which the sacrifices
were slaughtered
to summon the ghosts of past and future
The flail of the knife and the
sprig of the blessed tree
all of these
all of these
were different.
Are different.

So sit there, aging husk.
Your diseased bones reek of light.
You stare at the sea, the dun earth,
the wild circumnavigation of seasons
& humanity's unbounded sway -
you taste and you glut on the taste
for the transmission is done
for the retired writer sitting
in the sun.

Copyright Scott J. Couturier 2014

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