five minutes

by The Poet Spiel

twenty five cents worth,
picked up from goodwill,
a full bridal veil,
clinging to your lost eyes
like used cheesecloth,
wetsopped in the salty brine
of hopelessness, dripping
downward to your weary shoulders,
drooping past your knees, bent
to the beaten toes of your tough
old cowboy boots, peeking out
like tarnished trophies
of better times

and you are slumped to the kitchen floor,
a lump of pissed-off mudhead,
talking inside your oven door
how lately you’ve been spreading
dead seed on spent ground,
slobbering yammers of
who you used to be.

oh yeah, big deal, quite a guy.
all the ass you’ve scored.
lines of fans in wait
just to see you pen your artful name.
oh how dear the fame
(five minutes not fifteen).

ahh, but here now, the smell of rotten egg
seeping from this oven’s wavering pilot.

you slip your hand beneath the veil
between your legs for one last consideration.
shall you strike the match you grip there?
but oh shit, if you don’t strike it
you’ll be wedded to the stink of you,
bridled for one more day, and still another,
to face the sham you know you really are.

but ahh again, your fortune has turned
as you savor and suck the odor of gas so deeply;
you discover the match, like the quite a guy,
anxiously waits to spark the big deal fire


*check out The Poet Spiel's 5-page website at:
http://www.thepoetspiel.name/