Marble Woman

I am a marble woman


Where the sun does not shine

It is soft and sticky in here

A tunnel deep in my mind.

Flesh hands carved into me

Attached to a blank face

Vaguely male lover

Or maybe killer

I do not know his race.

Chiseled now and then

So my eyes droop just so

Devil’s handiwork

Knocks out the crimson snow

Leaves behind a perfect picture

Similitude of grace

All sorrows raptured

Despair with a face.

One of hell’s finer saints

Roped off from pointed fingers

Well above the holy snickers

They need to use a long pole

To wash my lips with vinegar.

Mausoleum Museum

The dead here on display

For the peepers and gawkers

To pass on with their day.

So that is what I am now

Performance art in stone

What’s left when heaven is eclipsed

As dark angels spread their wings.

A saint with no name

An icon with no shame

It is soft and sticky in here

I have no one else to blame.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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