October Love
"It was a soft October night,"— T.S. Eliot, from The Complete Poems And Plays: 1909 - 1950; “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
Blue veins pop like grease from frying pan
From decaying hands to rotten flesh
Made of cobwebs of sweet strawberries
And pumpkin guts
Baked in pumpkin pies
Sprinkled with spice.
The October leaves dipped
In chocolate, red rum and murder
Crunch beneath skeleton
Like hands that dig
From chocolate soil,
Show blue ocean,
eyes in the form
Of clouds
Ring of silver and shine
Proposed in accidentical
Words of shame and pride
To a corpse bride.
A ghostly song wrapped
In blue fabric, carved in trees
By forgotten memories
Done by homicidal maniacs
Sprinkled in blood
And broken bones
Of green maggots.
October love
Becomes skull
Bottle of poison an
Corpse of cannibalism
Deathly song of blue
Butterflies becomes
Beauty in piano keys,
Silence in wedding bells
And death of kiss on blue,
Cold, undying gray lips
With hollowed out eyes.
Blue locks for hair, white
Wedding dress ripped
At the seams, losing color
From being murdered beneath
An oak tree.
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