This Icy Mystery [poem]
You heard the call but didn’t (wouldn’t) go.
Your stupid worn-out used-up rancid fear
[“stupid” in the tragic sense of being in
a stupor like a drunken oaf would be,
right after partying hard on Saturday till 3]
has stopped the flow to join your fading
dancing twin to fly to distant galaxies.
You had your many hundred chances
on the polished floor to dance but never
came — instead of which you wrapped
your lovely legs in hardened steel; with
belted chastity you sealed your vulva’s
supernova serendipity [grand excuses
littering the aching sundust of the stars].
So now that once-was-open portal closed
itself with stark finality and somewhere,
way out in the dark, a galaxy imploded with
uncustomary brusqueness and the love
you wouldn’t learn was swiftly ambushed
in the shadows by some gurning little imps
who watched with glee this icy mystery.
© Alan Morrison, 2015
The Naked Troubadour 