Song to the South

Sort of an Ode to some place of "not better, but not worse".

Song to the South

A poem by Alejandro Manuel Espinoza

The seasonal dawn
A spilled viscous of acid
Thrown against the drapery of grey snow

Arousing some illusioned stench of singed brain flesh
Arousing some intrusive memory
Some weed that’s begun to grow

Standing nostalgic
Watching new growth in the ground
Figures rising out of reeking cold mucus in a furl of interpretive dance

Sowing seeds of new logic
Interlocking new truths found
The irritation marks of barbed wire cutting soft wrist flesh
Bound by feelings of necromance

Dysfunctional steel grows deeper
And plants in the brain stem too
Blossoming curiosity about the Eden that stretches beyond fingertips

I dare not speak the words
To taint it
By letting pass beyond my stranger lips

To keep my suspicions a secret
I hold a palm over a quivering mouth

Fantasies of leaving to Limbo
A gentle slumber on the south

A morose sensitivity in my fingertips
A rose infinity on my lips

Oh, an Eden for myself
If I can just convince myself
If I don’t kill myself

To go to the south
Before I go to the south

 

 

Author's Note

"not better, but not worse"