by John Thomas Allen
Death, come not cheaply. Neither in blue coma
or wrinkled hints of somatization; spin in a noir
parapet of black hats, squeeze me with Mitchum’s
preacher hand, thick and meaty, let each
sound be a music box’s last gold pluck. Death,
come not cheaply, wind up as a music box,
fall as its last symphony. Come in a black hat,
tattooed and preachy or stay home and
make a strange color of me, as Martha and Mary’s
pale brother waiting in his Father’s light
house for instructions,
olive green eyes,
staring past us forever.
John Thomas Allen is a poet from Albany NY who has had work featured in the Adirondack Review, Arsenic Lobster Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Haggard and Halloo, and other poetry publications in print and on the web. He is the head of Noveau’s Midnight Sun, a movement which seeks to reconcile metaphysics with Surrealist thought. He has a book of poems entitled “Lumière” being released from NightBallet Press at the end of December, along with a collaborative automatique production entitled “Manifestation of Creation” with painter SHahla ROsa from Dark Windows Press at the same time. He would like to thank David Shapiro, Lee Ballentine, and Donna Snyder for their friendship and kindness.