Tori Amos, Live -- San Jose


I've been told (by appled voices in an empty
culvert--over, over, over, over): be
suspicious
of a thing that bleeds for days
(a thing that speaks)
but does not die.

No knives, no guns, no
broken glass or razors past the gate--at centre

stage: the bleeding and the broken bones
are photographs, are pictographs,
are alien blueprints in an alien tongue.

A candle (careful!)--woman-tallow
(men have offered lye and embers)
rendered, not reduced, in white-fuming vitreol
and handfulls of fertilizer pearls that catch the light like
crematorium teeth.

Around
the stage, above the stage, the girls
are bathing in the detonation.





JDP 98/09






Copyright John D Porter © 1998

[List of Poems]