The Paralyzed Apocalypse: A Poem

Our posit on a curled hook,
hanging straight like slaughtered beef
in lockers of our chosen chill.
Our sins and organs all contained.
The cows had no choice.
And I lament our still lives
on their way to death.
We shut down music
in the mid-stream of a song.
(Unwind, is all) we often say.
Blackouts grow as comfortable
as cool pillows licking chins.
Pouring our demise like tea.
Sleuth we think it is, it ain’t.
Pain’s video, a tape to play another hour.
Drowning torch that might have
led us through these caves,
sorted gem from pressing dark.
We paralyze apocalypse.

I resent this shape, demolished dream.
Stuff pages down a toilet’s mouth;
paper floats despite the flush.
Art’s overflow is disappointment on a rage.
Importune and fetid in its honesty.
Can mallets swing at nothingness,
strike some unalloyed delight?
I drag you through these syllables
hoping for askance to take
as palsied legs just pray for steps
beyond a body’s aptitude.
Strip frosting from nice petit fours,
discovering the dry square,
familiar parch like morning eggs
common in their tragedies.
Can silence be a verb that bites?
Can blood ferment because of booze?
Sleuth we think it is, it ain’t.
Thwarted by corks, carried by beer
to some assumed falsetto dawn.

Posted in PoetryBookmark the permalink. Trackbacks are closed, but you can post a comment.