Still Life*

Morgan Woodchuck's a name
waiting to explode.
There's eight sticks of stardust
hidden between the oh's.
Some dazzle, some glimmer
their plumes fuming gold . . .
A river of light sparks
dead red scrolls.

aroma of nightshade,
powdered ground elk
aroma of sheepskin,
spoiled raw silk
a vision of yesturday
in howls and shrieks
tomorrow's in pieces,
rags bloody and beat

in with the clowns ...
out with the claws
hand Morgan Woodchuck
a ticket to Oz
a ticket to Giza,
a ticket Hell
a one way first class
to some small plastic cell

with no door and no cieling
and dark leaks from below
with a backdraft of angels
being fed to the crows

a thought dripping acid
a rash in the mud
a witch's bad hairday
a laugh dry and snug

hey guard can you hear me?
It's Morgan's last wish
can you grab me a Whiskey?
and a long rubber stick?