Falling in love with someone, particularly, does something to the heart. I don't think you ever really fall out of love with them. You move on, but you hold a part of them within forever. They contribute to the overall you; you are incomplete without them, as little as you would like to admit it. I kind of envision it as a graveyard, without trying to sound too macabre. Everyone we have given our heart to is buried within us, and every new love that is lost is laid to rest. The image itself got me to thinking, "If the heart really is like a graveyard... who tends to the graves?"
Purging the plots marked up on this heart,
Moist soil on the shovel tip,
I brush off my overalls as I walk across the dirt
And flush out my fangs with a toothpick.
My footprints will be washed away
Once the angel tears come flying,
But the grass will never reach far enough to overgrow these names.
Sarcophaguses of beloved lay just below the surface,
Tombs and relics scattered like arrows in a manmade forest.
My feather duster serves me well
In this paradise or private hell,
My keys have kissed each lock quite well
And I'm waiting for bones to break me.
Built a castle of skulls
To sit on a throne of cartilage,
Humming oldie tunes
And tending to my lineage.
Prune the arteries,
Leech the valves with these pipe cleaners;
My knapsack is overflowing
With the artifacts that make me keener.
Oh, what a meandering
Atop this sullen, sunken wreck,
Suspended in antiquity
With no tongue or lips to peck.
Oh, wouldn't it be grand
To band or bouquet,
Like a barrel of whisky
Or a bundle of Mrs. Sam McGredy
Of those that have come and gone?
A smoldering ambition.
This is the intermission,
The space between the spinal chord
And the beat you wish to listen.
Pepper scattered wreaths,
Slight of hand, erroneous
Bathing beneath their sheaths.
You will come to find me napping
With my hat tucked way down low
Over my drooping brow,
Cradled on the bridge of my nose.
A hammock to catch the wind at dusk,
A windmill to blow away the dust,
A corner for the slime and rust
To collect until they're beauteous.
Crouching on a willow stump,
My rake not far from reach,
Hands folded over, twice;
These limestones still left to bleach.
My eyes may be closed,
But the work is never done
Surviving and utilizing
All the strength without the sun.
Chancre carousel cadaver,
The maliciousness of the endeavor.
Beside a wilted flower.
Plant my shovel in the grass
Propel my hovel, full and fast,
The space is perpetual and vast
And there is much still left here to vacate.