Deliriodreama

Patrick Powers

Wandering past the cemetery gates
and purple bougainvillea along Olivia Street,
an angel with wings of stone
looms over the garden. I walk below
her mournful gaze, follow the cracked burning
sidewalk to a blue hotel.
I take two halfdrunk flights up back
down and past the banana plants and pink doors
to a roomful of nude
mannequins and empty winebottles.
Dust floats in the light streaming
between the thin floral drapes. I flop down
on the sofa under a bust
of Marilyn Monroe. A deep floating
saffron haze dissolves over me.
Sundown. I sink into a bath
of subconsciousness, my fingersfeeling
my fingers closing on my palm
and the toxic pill, a puss-filled wound, the bright
centerlight where the wit of philosophy dissipates;
where time tells
itself, the hands of the clocks are amputated.

---

M.P. Powers lives with one foot in Berlin, Germany, and the other in South Florida, where he rents out construction equipment. He is the editor of 11 Mag Berlin, and has been published recently in Red Fez, Chiron Review, Slipstream, The Daily Drunk, Neuro Logical and others. He tweets here: @mppowers1132

---