by Amit Parmessur
He discovered an unkempt doll
lying speechless in his dun garden,
with a red finger-like twig around her waist.
Suspecting she had been raped
he cradled her home.
The blood between her legs poured onto
his handsome hands and spilled into
his eyes as he wiped at cold tears.
The forest wolves howled, relentlessly.
He placed the doll on his bed,
talking her in back to life, stroking
her scarred body, her torn shoes
with loose strawberry laces.
A few perfect circles were made
on the bed sheet as the doll tried
to stir and open her eyes.
The night was black when she died.
Every day he now dreams of gory
dolls laughing him into madness,
with dark abysses opening in his bed; his
cries are killed by bloody fingers creeping
along his legs ready
to cut his divine rod.
© 2011 Amit Parmessur
Amit Parmessur, for someone who hated poetry, has been accepted
for the past six months by over 65 magazines, including Ann Arbor Review, Burnt Bridge, Calliope
Nerve, Catapult to Mars, Clockwise Cat, Clutching at Straws, Damazine,
Gloom Cupboard, Heavy Hands Ink, LITSNACK, Mad Swirl, Red Fez, The
Literary Burlesque, Shot Glass Journal and The Scrambler. As long as he gets
published he knows that he is going in the right direction.
Find more by Amit Parmessur in the Author Index.
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