The Hypnotist's Son
He was a carpetbagger in another life;
a star shivering in its own shine during
the darkest summer night
when her eyelids wink up at the sky before bed.

He will roll his tongue like a ferris wheel inside her mouth -
touch goose feathers to her pixie flesh, compare her
to Marie Antoinette, though preferring Thumbelina
with her toes taught and tight upright to spread the kiss.

His mother will be lavish;
stealing stark silhouettes:
Salvador Dali with pineapple -
Gustav Klimt ala boudoir-

He will speak to her in Memorex
and Polaroid; sipping day old coffee
before dribbling it into your ear -

foregoing harsher delicacies for swollen lips
and lost earrings.

His giggle is made of wind chime;

though he's perfected the art of departure;
saluting the zealots through the slit holes of his four finger discounts-

to amount to love, more than taking it;
to hold it together long enough to divide
selfishness into self sanctification -

how he held his hairline
when embracing her; how his
arms list on keels of diaphanous
axis',

twirling fingers into sphere's,
nails snapping into the curve of
an eyebrow, or his father
with the graying beard,

how he will enchant you -
how he will hold your gaze, caress
your broken immaculation; praise
you like a gutter leaf,

bow, as he might to any dowager
daughter crowned inside her own
gentry.

He will stand apart from self
on the landing, in the dark; the
platform milky-hollow and all
noise around you will cease.

He will snap his fingers once,
twirl his verbiage in your direction,
and pretend to look away when you
notice.


a/n: written for September WCC.