sd gross
04-11-2008, 04:57 PM
Waiting for the light to change one Sebastopol morning last October...and there she was!
Goth's Journey
by stephen d gross
Its so odd to see a Goth in early morning
on a corner in a sunny country town
under a cornflower sky
by a grassy emerald sea
Searching for bloody thorns
to weave her crown
Wearing Torquemada black
magenta lightning burns her hair
Bristly and Butch, skull streaked,
Blue veined like an egg
or a freshly skinned gyrene
Malamute circles under eyes of Arctic ice
chains clanking against bonywhite knees
She breathes a murky drama,
Pungently she floats in a patchouli scented fog
Over Crayola-box lawns
bleeding with hot wax colors
She paints her steel-ringed toes
Mossy-cool monastic caverns
Insane with carnival lights
songs and dreams of her forebears
Seed with rust her troubled spirit
She listens...
Her silver spoon tinkles musically
through the spindrift of her morning latte
Enchanted by her bagel, buttery slick
reflected in Wexford crystal,
shimmering with Old Testament light
She hears the cell phone in her Volvo
chirping like a dying sparrow
Her friend Ashleigh needs her homework
Her heavy Maltese cross won't save her
From the wrath of Mrs. Higgins
Or her Orange velvet dungeon
overlooking the jacuzzi
Far above the misting valley
near the town called Santa Rosa
Where the Moon is always full
Goth's Journey
by stephen d gross
Its so odd to see a Goth in early morning
on a corner in a sunny country town
under a cornflower sky
by a grassy emerald sea
Searching for bloody thorns
to weave her crown
Wearing Torquemada black
magenta lightning burns her hair
Bristly and Butch, skull streaked,
Blue veined like an egg
or a freshly skinned gyrene
Malamute circles under eyes of Arctic ice
chains clanking against bonywhite knees
She breathes a murky drama,
Pungently she floats in a patchouli scented fog
Over Crayola-box lawns
bleeding with hot wax colors
She paints her steel-ringed toes
Mossy-cool monastic caverns
Insane with carnival lights
songs and dreams of her forebears
Seed with rust her troubled spirit
She listens...
Her silver spoon tinkles musically
through the spindrift of her morning latte
Enchanted by her bagel, buttery slick
reflected in Wexford crystal,
shimmering with Old Testament light
She hears the cell phone in her Volvo
chirping like a dying sparrow
Her friend Ashleigh needs her homework
Her heavy Maltese cross won't save her
From the wrath of Mrs. Higgins
Or her Orange velvet dungeon
overlooking the jacuzzi
Far above the misting valley
near the town called Santa Rosa
Where the Moon is always full