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Rated: E · Poetry · Cultural · #2140673
The magician's slight of hand.

"Pick a card, any card!" The magician held the deck out.
It makes me want to shout, he thought, eyeing the lambs
at his slaughter, the refugees from reason aching for
magic, lancing their cause for reality on the altar
of prestidigitation, culling sideshow slippages
of bony men wearing black capes, waving
magic wands, insisting with great vigor
the hocus-pocus indeed be somehow
endowed to shiny, flat cards.

It makes me want to chuckle, he thought, flashing
crooked, yellow teeth as one unsuspecting ewe
advanced with delicate hand to so oblige the
magician’s request, picking a card, slipping
it slowly from the red and white deck, clad
in wonder and school-girl giddy at this
bold suspension of reality about to
be advanced.

It makes me want to continue, he thought, lapping
his tongue around the roof of his mouth, sopping
puddles of pure gullibility with swindling sponge,
storing giggles down deep for future ecstasies,
thanking Heaven for more willingly blinded,
enjoying pinging guffaws to so resonate
inside, along with shouts.

24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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