Cheese Is for Lovers
an allegory as poetry
Welcome to December, that gray time of year where the grass is brittle and the air spiteful. People fill themselves with cheer in other ways, reminding themselves of Christmas with 40% off sales and waiting three lights to turn into Walmart.
Oh well! Our offering today first appeared in Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry, and should be read very carefully or it might bite. Alternatively, you could enjoy this completely unrelated abstract art below. Win-win.
Cheese Is for Lovers allusion There is smoke in my nose, but no cigarette. There is a dragon in the room, hiding like an elf. I will fan his fire if he lets the maiden go. I can't find him. All I have is cheese which I cannot eat. illusion The python wraps around his neck. Its eyes are opals. Stars combust and swallow space. Now they stare at me. The man juggles torches for a living. There is no rabbit in his hat, just a frog that cannot be a prince. By way of his sleeve-- the fork and the spoon and what the cow meant to the cheese on the moon. delusion I have never understood criminals who turn themselves in with a smile until now. These bars are not cold, they are refreshing; the mat is not hard, it is firm for my back so I may sleep and work hard in the morning. I can even eat the cheese. collusion The sun is a lamp behind a black curtain. I am a negative dipped in solution and hung up to dry. The lamp is my crowd; the solution my undertaker; the clothespins my hangman. I hope I make a good photo. Say cheese. elusion The hounds bay. I swim downstream. The water is not cold if I can't feel anymore. There is ice in my nose. It is quick-dry cement. My hair feels like twigs after winter rain. I will lie on shore, in the pebbles and driftwood, and stare at the sun. For all its brightness, it cannot dry me or warm me. It cannot melt me like cheese in a skillet if I cannot feel it. seclusion Heat curves off the road in ribbons. It tickles the sweat on the tips of the hair on my arm. I see a woman across the road, in the sand. She is wearing a sari. I don't know her, but she is pretty without a face. I could lie down and sleep if that rock would stop hissing. I will run to the next station. The attendant will be dead from a shotgun blast to the chest. He is a yellow-skinned man full of holes and smelling like old cheese. It is not unlike something. We can be twins. inclusion Death comes slower than imagined. It is the mold on the cheese. The cow hates me, bacteria plays me for a fool. I ate the cheese, and now I'm sick.
Are you still here? I’m sorry. It’s over now. Check out these other posts you might enjoy!
