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Dead Poets

Author Biography
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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