Forgot to blow out
. the pilot light. Headed
For a crash landing
. in the Hudson.
The goose is cooked,
. but humans survive this,
Douse the burning engines
. in New York City's runoff.
Six o'clock news images blur
. with fetid dreams oddly
Erotic at my least virile.
I smolder - cinder and ash -
. below blankets multicolored.
Sweat drips to the floor.
. Bored with TV, I blame
Open-mouthed kisses with
. bumblebees in a Brooklyn
Dancehall. Operating without
. a cabaret license, we bop,
Stop, drop and roll. Now these
. pyromaniacal hornets,
They spit venom into my veins.
I dose myself - something strong -
. drift off someplace
Of higher altitude where
. fecund women bathe sinners
And repent their virginity in
. a passionate inferno. Oh!
My head. The clock tics. Tic.
. Tic. Tic. Too loud.
Passing time beats drumrolls
. upon my skull. It has been
Days since I last stepped outside.
I have to get up - to
. vomit or eat. Following
My feet to the kitchen,
. I stare at the gelatinous
Mess that was once
. Chicken soup. The oven
Is cold. The bird flew the
. coop. I turn
The knob and click. Click.
. Click. Click. Then heat.
I need a microwave oven.
2 comments:
Wow. Cool poem, Noah. Very intense, very viceral. I like the use of repetition, "Tap. Tap. Tap," that later is echoed "Click, click, click." Your language seems to speak of decay and deterioration. We will definitely be discussing this one on Wednesday!
I really like the punctuation in this poem. It creates all of these stops that make to poem sound like a clock ticking in the background.
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