Cool Thing
 

I love the words you use,
your mellifluous dialect of idioms,
its iconoclastic melody.
The verbs you brandish
become duvet feathers
or small spheres of plutonium death
at your command.
Your adjectives are bayadères,
unleashed lyrical tempests
over a parched land.
I love the way you swoop
on the feeble 
and peck out their eyes.
I'll play your game,
I'll walk the plank,
fly closer to that tyrant sun.
I love the way you shatter,
a corpse washed up by the tide,
the way you murmur arcane mantras,
deranged sermons.
I love the way you collect gods in jars,
shaking the glass to provoke duels
and accepting their offerings 
of lightning bolts and endless sleep.
 
 

(C) Copyright 1998
Nick Kellaway 
All Rights Reserved