(Spill-O the Crepuscular Pillar)
Between the confusion of tongues
and the tongues of flame
things get a little strange
Grappling the blurry shadows thrown by a weak lamp
a headache below the skin presses every idle syllable
into a fresh drama
From his mouth sprang a carousel
Frost of argument and froth of ornament
Decorative consolation for being born too late
Great smoking opal where something beautiful once stood
Waterslide to serfdom, Cadillac the color of a flatworm’s blood
Wishing gourd, purse dildo, breasts full of eyes
Fissures of men and frazzled specters of the dead
for which bejeweled prisons fell from Spill-O’s eyes
pink like Easter orange like Halloween crimson
like an unfunny joke told at dusk’s expense
Arriving at the very tip of the sphere
the compass spins, the details are the point:
Hobo bedding in the mouth of a fiberglass mini-golf serpent
Glimmering chains on pinions of monkey fingers
Interlacing faces woefully concealing a monument of light
Wings made of coins made of wood made of snakes made of highways
Quarantine-souvenir hamburgers made of roses
Homes like hieroglyphs, beach detritus, dying bachelor symbols
The mystic shattering of the human face
and the 21st scenario splintering
into miracules, moleculously
in the mirror of miracle
***
Colin Dodds is a writer with several novels and books of poetry to his name. He grew up in Massachusetts and lived in California briefly, before finishing his education in New York City. Since then, he’s made his living as a journalist, editor, copywriter and video producer. Over the last seven years, his writing has appeared in numerous publications, been nominated for prizes. thecolindodds.com
all the sins 