Poetry By
G. O. Clark
Published on: 6/12/2013
The Taste of Death
She loved cooking gourmet, and his appetite had no bounds. It was gastronomic bliss for him. She was a true expert in the use of seasonings and extracts. Sweet or sour, his taste buds sang. As for poisons, she only used them sparingly, to prolong his agony. He never Googled the warning signs. Their culinary bliss lasted many years, until her fatal car accident. There was speculation upon the cause. He lived to age ninety, his last words, her cooking was to die for.
Published on: 6/10/2013
Head Games
She collects shrunken heads, old high school beaus, Johnny, Billy, Jim and Biff. Her former husbands, Ned, Ted, Tom and Fred, plus college professors, Mr.'s Chambers, Delgado and Chan, and lascivious bosses, Benson, Templeton, and McSweeny. The eyes and lips of each head are permanently stitched shut. The size of each head, a near-perfect fit to her tannin-stained hands. The dark story behind each trophy, far too long for a poem. She collects shrunken heads, and is quite comfortable in her own alabaster skin.
Published on: 5/24/2011
Cosmic Sales Pitch
As part of his demonstration, the Hoover salesman vacuumed stardust from their Venetian blinds, winked at Carl, then handed his mom the warranty, origami folded into the shape of the future.
Published on: 5/25/2011
Reflections In An Empty Mirror
To see the invisible man is to suspend your disbelief in what you perceive impossible, while really thinking just the opposite. His telltale signs are everywhere. The mystery sound of rustling fabric. An unfamiliar scent on the night air. Footprints in the plush carpet. You wonder who else he's visited. What secrets he's silently witnessed. What voyeuristic fantasies he may have played out. What boudoirs ghosted. Perhaps a perfect spy he'd make - reading yourself into his shoes - if not for his total disconnect from all things political, corporate, or dogmatic. He's a country unto himself, with his own system of morality, answerable to nobody in particular, all but transparent to the Law. Some solids wish they had his powers; the criminally inclined, or the shy, humiliated ones longing for a little perverted revenge. Is that movement glimpsed out of the corner of your eye the invisible man?. Do you have anything of real value to forfeit, or innocence to lose? Don't be afraid. Talk to him. Embrace this once in a lifetime experience of being somewhere as history is made. With luck, he'll share his secret.
Published on: 5/26/2011
I Was Hoping For More
Up in the sky tonight, the three quarter Moon seems unfinished, as if some painter ran out of moon grey paint. The stars are muted by the city's glow, Jupiter a distant headlight, those mysterious lights on high, just another red eye flight. I was hoping for more. Some Spielbergian Christmas lights. A ripple in the dark between the stars. A wizened alien voice. Going back inside, I leave my little patch of night sky to the cats, owls and graveyard-shifters, intent upon their work, eyes cast to Earth.
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