Musings by The Poet Loriet
Social Butterflies (In My Stomach)
Contemplating the statue warily,
the sculptor (presumably male) designed
her breasts as full round apples--
but she had no eyeballs;
just hollow almond slits,
alabaster and phantom-like.
Shivering imperceptibly,
I turn around,
and a white-haired man
captures my attention.
He possesses transparent ice-blue eyes
and a blood-red mouth.
Sans eyeballs, I have to wonder--
where have their souls gone?
It's as if they can see clear
to my inner core--
Naked,
trapped in an x-ray tunnel of vision,
heart palpitating,
anxiety riddling my veins.
Deodorant fails me,
lungs struggle
to maintain even breaths.
Everywhere I turn,
I run into a knee, an elbow,
a protruding abdomen, bulbous buttocks,
causing me to blush furiously.
A foreign lady breathes down my neck,
inundating me with garlic halitosis.
The young teenage couple
directly in front of me
are attached at the lips, the hips,
and it's a no-passing zone,
so I feign great interest
in the nondescript ceiling,
dark walls closing in on me,
but perhaps most longingly
at the neon red EXIT sign
lit up like a beacon of hope,
an island of redemption,
screaming my name!
"Here I am," I whispered...
but my voice was unmercifully
cannibalized, drowned
in the abyss of human
un-society.
Lori Beal
the sculptor (presumably male) designed
her breasts as full round apples--
but she had no eyeballs;
just hollow almond slits,
alabaster and phantom-like.
Shivering imperceptibly,
I turn around,
and a white-haired man
captures my attention.
He possesses transparent ice-blue eyes
and a blood-red mouth.
Sans eyeballs, I have to wonder--
where have their souls gone?
It's as if they can see clear
to my inner core--
Naked,
trapped in an x-ray tunnel of vision,
heart palpitating,
anxiety riddling my veins.
Deodorant fails me,
lungs struggle
to maintain even breaths.
Everywhere I turn,
I run into a knee, an elbow,
a protruding abdomen, bulbous buttocks,
causing me to blush furiously.
A foreign lady breathes down my neck,
inundating me with garlic halitosis.
The young teenage couple
directly in front of me
are attached at the lips, the hips,
and it's a no-passing zone,
so I feign great interest
in the nondescript ceiling,
dark walls closing in on me,
but perhaps most longingly
at the neon red EXIT sign
lit up like a beacon of hope,
an island of redemption,
screaming my name!
"Here I am," I whispered...
but my voice was unmercifully
cannibalized, drowned
in the abyss of human
un-society.
Lori Beal
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Social Butterflies (In My Stomach)
Social Butterflies (In My Stomach)
