Beethoven only bit back at that that ate him whole

Eighty years later his dental mold is as stained as Veronica's cloth

Rattling his brain into a maraca of senile thought

Fading into another memory I forgot or wouldn't mind to


Dead writers are the greatest because they aren't writers any longer

The sexiest corpses only wear fuzzy handcuffs,

DNA-helix pigtails for the pulling, and a silent speaking mouthpiece

Not a drop of dribble dripping down their unlisped disclosures


Closing hands on leaving clovers

Unraveling my red ribbons for sharks to see

Not seeing them in this simulation of penultimacy

Not feeling their teeth in this bath of malt liquor


I drop my jaw and pull my pinned tongue from its hinge

Swallow them whole and never floss away the taste of their sapphire sadness


Published at Danse Macabre