Tonight's Poet Corner: Bed Death
Bed Death by Belinda Roddie The buzz of excess harmony; the dial tone of your idioms, factory-pressed and cooked into commodities. You attempted to breathe ecstasy where there was none to begin with. No kick, no habit-inducing spree of intellect. You offered little to nothing in terms of value. Beads break eventually, and the string that holds it all together separates into a bristled tail, and not even animals can wear the jewelry without feeling embarrassed. You held worth in second thought sentences, when the meaning was half diminished, half pulverized, in the mid-chew of lingual gristle. You couldn't tell me how you really felt because you felt nothing. You liked to use big words so you could be a big lover, and the flavor was lost when the marrow was buried under pearl-white lipids. The stuff I used for wax on temporary candles that lit our path to the bed only so many times before the spit tired out the wick.