Nightmare Sonnet #13 by Thomas Zimmerman

Nightmare Sonnet #13

Night presses breasts and thighs against the glass

of kitchen window, sliding door. The beer

I’m drinking conjures succubi that pass

me potions frothing gothic visions dear

to my enshackled witch within. They close

my loop this way: I eat my serpent tail.

The cello music on the playlist flows

and moans like mammal suffering, the wail

of forest masses, banshees giving birth,

six-fingered alchemists whose curses limp,

then sprint. The air this evening smells of earth,

a storm is boiling angels live. The imp

of the perverse has got me by the throat.

My black dog’s horned and angry as a goat.

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