I grew up with a love of horror and science-fiction movies, with a particular affection for the low-budget, yet endlessly inventive and peculiar, films of Roger Corman. This poem is a a companion of sorts to "Untitled Novel--written around the same time and in a similar style, but with my childhood fancy hand-in-claw with my then (and now) aversion to love stories.
A beach at
dusk--smooth,
ocher, littered
with interesting
bones--is moved
on by The Couple,
Stosh and Vicki,
whose study of
fingers warmly
knotted together
is the talk of
the Medical
Universe. They
walk until they pause,
draw Lover-I-Want-
You-Now close,
and are about to
taste when they
are persued back
across the sand and
skeletons and, as
the last horizon
light fades and cold
blue stars bejewel
its wake, are
consumed by giant
papier macheĊ½ crabs.
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