The Rose

Disclaimer: this is a sound driven, ironic poem. I only half mean what I’m saying (don’t go for definitions, but go for meaning) and please sense the rest. Also, verse one is the sound of a shovel burying the martyred nuns, who will come back to “haunt” later in the poem….. Enjoy.

…….

Diglot

Diglot… Diglot…

Scrape

Diglot… Diglot…Diglot…

A perfumed aroma of taken feme converts

Murdered sororal blood

Littering granite calefacient floors

Diglot their great grievous graves

Lay a cherry on top

Slurp up death like ice cream in a nonplus store

Pink sunrises fall with mulibrity wings

In twis twas the October surprise

This day that diglot rose feme converts graves

The pale leaves whisked dead sororal faces

Dragged to horated algar decease,

sweetly returned this October sunrise.

Now giving as much purple clemency as was fed,

There is undying agony at cathedral’s stead

Its bells ringing torturous hands as spiders do

With veracious virility they tread

Some stone diglot their shallow fairies

Others cower and conceal behind corridors

Once guilty sought by dead.

But where can one hide for October surprise?

With polonymous hatred

And knowing who I was

The ancestor of perfumers

And caretaker of their dreamy doom

Horated Alger they committed me that day

Sunset showing my cold name

With a cherry atop my sundae

A Hollow Bed

My anguished fame

The hark of the toll

The avenged hour has come

And satisfied converts return to creamy gravesites

With new comrades in hand

If only to Wake

To find with great deign

That dead never saunter in the park

Nor have wandered near my nonplus bed

Nor touched on this October sunrise

The place where my bruised neck lays a head.

Copyright 2005 of Jessica Anne McLean. All rights reserved.

Spooked out yet?