Sunday, May 25, 2014

After the Afterparty (The Eighties)



     Groan that blade of light that pries your eyes open shouldn’t be so bright shouldn’t even be day yet these useless curtains the red throb rather than black cobwebs so thick the light gets tangled like flies never escapes kick through the rubble nothing moves waded and crumpled and compressed then strewn not so much conquered as crushed with boredom then ejected from a cannon particles collide and separate clump together then crumble gaping craters and scorched carpet and broken glass you try to step gingerly but your bare soles want to stomp the bathroom is no better something draped across the mirror something sticking to the ceiling lets go with a plop and you jump startled witch's snot and goblin semen kick through to the kitchen plow a path through the limbs and piles of scorched clothing couch cushions saturated with grease piled precariously on the stove you turn off the oven and slam the door unbutton your shirt and reach in to grab the thing twisting in there grab it by the scruff of the neck yank it out of your chest hold it at arms length where its claws can't reach your face until out of breath it stops struggling and hangs there limply staring at you hateful but not even having the strength to spit.

1 comment:

  1. Good poem; imagerys in flight and still sticking to one another.

    Might be interesting to look at it separated into 2 lines at a time. A different perceptual pacing is a different poem.

    my regards
    and affections

    Ulrich Stegna

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