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Edgewood, 1974 It was a grand, abandoned mental asylum surrounded by a forest of pines. One day a dead body was found in its foyer. From Commack Road, through the fence topped with barbed wire, we saw the stretcher. It was our feudal Lord. It towered over our neighborhood, the center of our demesne. Overlooking the schoolyard playground, it was always reminding, reminding of something. With its blessing, hidden in its woods, we smoked pot in an opening. The car tires of its patrolling guards, rolling like fate on the service road, was an aural surveillance when it wasn’t looking. It was rumored you could see the sea from its central cupola. One night, silhouetted against the eternal, the Doors played from a high, broken window. It was our sacrament. Ex Opere Operato: all we had to do was look, and listen. It was spotted with pigeon shit, and sometimes appeared like that painting of Christ, thorn-crowned in ivy, scourged. Then, when they tore it down, the hymen of my childhood rent: it was worse than the Crucifixion. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Medard Louis Lefevre Jr. On Date: 2015-05-28 00:42:37
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Wonderful post and sensual visage. I believed I willingly spent some quality time there. Jim says "hello" and the lizard king is now a deity. In my hometown, it was a country club but still decorated by the pigeons and mentioned reverently somewhere in The Gospels. Another great write. Thanks!
Medard