The ghosts at play beneath my skin

The ghosts at play beneath my skin
kill all happy thoughts. Children wither
down to sog and blisters

out on the street, under my touch.
My loving is a black cataclysm;
nympholepsy for leper's bread.

I've staggered into light before:
when I was young, before all
the touching dried up, I played
the colors in my big American
backyard, blowing Spring
birds that never hung
around long enough to get
my name.

The ghosts at play beneath my skin
shake their candy-hot wings.
My nights, crowded with zombie sugar:

my dawns, doused with hounds

Lewis LaCook
Director of Web Development
Abstract Outlooks Media

Abstract Outlooks Media - Premium Web Hosting, Development, and Art Photography - New Media Poetry and Poetics
Xanax Pop - the Poetry of Lewis LaCook

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