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A horn emerged one morning with the tawny sun
Raised in between my eyes, steely as a gun.
My fingers split from tracing up the tapered tip,
My pillow bleeding feathers, ripped to cotton strips.
The doctor made a house-call, brought his rawhide bag,
Prodded my burdened brow, commented on the sag
Of the skin adjoining my new accessory
And on the coloration: more parchment than ivory.
He advised a UV lamp regime twice daily
And mused aloud how to get the horn less scaly.
He first prescribed polymer but then thought shellac
Would better seal and stuff those pesky hair-line cracks.
The UV treatment failed, my horn tarnished green.
The doctor strokes his chin: why don't we try some bleach?
He super glued my forehead, plastered up my pores,
Smothering the wrinkles he so violently abhorred.
The next morning I awoke to a loathsome sight
My face had liquefied to paste overnight;
A pond of toxic sludge congealed on the floor
Pooling in the arc of an alabaster horn.
|Category: Couplets | Added by: Lauren (2012-12-01)
| Author: Lauren
|Views: 229 | Comments: 5
| Rating: 0.0/0||
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