It’s painted on the portrait with velvet-like finish:
The face of a young woman in pink.
Behind her half-shut lids coronated with the longest lashes:
Her deep-seated eyes of the brightest blue
Though dear and touching her simple stare compels
When a flock of lust so thick darkens the irises.
…
In the summer,
when the wind blows, glass chimes sing
and dead pigs on hooks swing side to side
the stench attracts the hungry boys with
their tongues hanging out and bare feet
in black boiling blood that runs along the road
like a flash flood taking away
the cigarette butts,
the needles,
and the orange peels…
Memories fill the space
between wake and sleep,
tenderly stroking
our sunburnt faces,
and we press our cheeks
against the sandy beach
into another half dream
where we collect things
that take shape of an arrowhead,
or marbles of a crystallized nebula,
then atop the feather-grass knoll
we sit cross-legged hearing the thunder,
or the sound shot from a pistol
that…
I like to write horror and surreal stories, as well as poetry. Twitter: @ckgacosta Webite: cgacosta.weebly.com
