Muscle Mansion

Muscle Mansion is the exclusive

Center for the elite

Champions of body building

 

Expanding with breadth of definition

They flex anvils of biceps and pectorals

And stride to mirrors

To see their statuesque physiques

 

The daily bulk of muscle mass

Proportioned by the stress exerted

On their joints and bones

Is now beneath that sleek elastic skin

Stretched within a fraction of the force

That vulcanized exhausted cells

 

Another day for living in that dream

Of bulging brawn

A fusion of that furious assault

On muscle born to fabricate

The inarticulate frozen form

 

 

Ted Goodell

June 5, 2010

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Heat Wave

It broke into a crescendo

Of heat

Each spear of the sun’s rays

Striking the dazed figures

That seemed to crawl

Along the parched pavements

Of a tediously listless day

Even time was scorched

And squeezed the

Languid energy

From sweating skin

Now as the air

Plumes her heavy wings

Even the heat

Begs for rain.

 

Ted Goodell

September 2, 2007

The Bracelet

 

Around her wrist

An ornament of silver shines

Its loveliness is not illusion

But a fact

Illuminated like a flower

That turns into a spring of flowers

Whose petals now adorn a magic fire

 

What incandescent force compels

This lace of silver to entwine your wrist

To purchase the allure of placement

Where it circles over skin and bone

Before its round configuration

Orbits over all our lonely destinations

 

Ted Goodell

December 30, 2010

Ancient Curse

 

The tough guys come to jail

So they can sport their tattoos

The need to display the torso

With its intricate pointillism

Of design on the living canvas of skin.

 

The man, influenced by the

Tribal shamans of the orient,

Specialists in needle and ink.

 

The jeweled pirate and the banners

Of legion hordes

Racing from dark encampments

Into the sweat of leather

And the heat of steel

Now bringing the city the booted

Legend and the fast bike

A deployment of big pals

Weary of work

Wanting bright playthings

And shifting a sudden

Side glance of the eye

And a quick switch to a thick fist.

 

Now the caught quarry

Sits like a big beast

In the County Jail

The torso working

Its muscular map

Of lines and loops

While the mouth repeats the

Ancient curse of

Mother fucker, Mother fucker.

 

Ted Goodell

1992