(no subject)
Plenty of poets have praised the early-morning hard on
but then there's the early-morning piss:
an alarm clock blares, drunk shuffle to the door
lumber towards the loch where bright light and falling shorts herald
the coming of the Beast. Leary one eyed bastard spits at the sun
and unleashes uncoordinated genocide
on tile, carpet, and the bold look of kohler.
After a few seconds, you begin to breathe again
the ongoing catharsis starts sounding a bit like a aum
so you relax, breathing deeply, allowing last night's bloodstream
to waft up from the bowl:
citrus clove and chlorophyll
digested hops and remalted barley
waste oil and coffee
meanwhile memories clang about each smell
beating drums and chests and children as Paroheth rips and the piss roars on--
this is punctuated equilibrium, ugly and bright.
Lost in the middle of all this, you'll cough and scratch your thigh
maybe spell-check that fading dream
hit that handle, the contents flushed into darkness--
beside tampons condoms and storm drain styrofoam,
your liquid yesterday drained across concrete slick with pepsi and blood
crushed through screens and tanks and processing vats
then the anaerobic vultures, osmosis antennae
massive underground plants. Nothing endures, everything survives--
each speck and sin rent asunder!--
chemical divinity in hydrogen, oxygen,
and slow sand filtration. Eventually it all gets reassembled
packaged for the suburbs and taxed by the state
a dash of fluoride and dark matter and it's ready to stand still
waiting in listless silence while silicon levers prepare fiberglass gates
that will send water rushing through tunnels and tubes and taps...
Of course, your thoughts aren't quite so extended--the only critical thinking needed now
concerns the likelihood of vomiting and the temperature of the shower
which you stumble into, still squinting, half-blind enough to miss the inscription
on the drain--CINCINNATI WATER BUREAU--but aware enough to scrub your balls
and wash your hair. To you the droplets pelting your back are nothing like
piss or shit or industrial waste, they are warm flakes of amniotic fluid
cushioning your sore arms, embracing your wrinkled dick,
streaming across your pockmarked skin screaming
"alive, alive, wake up you sack of shit
you are alive!"
this took several hours to re-write. the original version was about half as long and to be honest I don't know if I ruined it by extending it so much.
any thoughts or critiques would be very much appreciated; if you're interested in the original, it was originally posted here.
thank you for reading my poem.
but then there's the early-morning piss:
an alarm clock blares, drunk shuffle to the door
lumber towards the loch where bright light and falling shorts herald
the coming of the Beast. Leary one eyed bastard spits at the sun
and unleashes uncoordinated genocide
on tile, carpet, and the bold look of kohler.
After a few seconds, you begin to breathe again
the ongoing catharsis starts sounding a bit like a aum
so you relax, breathing deeply, allowing last night's bloodstream
to waft up from the bowl:
citrus clove and chlorophyll
digested hops and remalted barley
waste oil and coffee
meanwhile memories clang about each smell
beating drums and chests and children as Paroheth rips and the piss roars on--
this is punctuated equilibrium, ugly and bright.
Lost in the middle of all this, you'll cough and scratch your thigh
maybe spell-check that fading dream
hit that handle, the contents flushed into darkness--
beside tampons condoms and storm drain styrofoam,
your liquid yesterday drained across concrete slick with pepsi and blood
crushed through screens and tanks and processing vats
then the anaerobic vultures, osmosis antennae
massive underground plants. Nothing endures, everything survives--
each speck and sin rent asunder!--
chemical divinity in hydrogen, oxygen,
and slow sand filtration. Eventually it all gets reassembled
packaged for the suburbs and taxed by the state
a dash of fluoride and dark matter and it's ready to stand still
waiting in listless silence while silicon levers prepare fiberglass gates
that will send water rushing through tunnels and tubes and taps...
Of course, your thoughts aren't quite so extended--the only critical thinking needed now
concerns the likelihood of vomiting and the temperature of the shower
which you stumble into, still squinting, half-blind enough to miss the inscription
on the drain--CINCINNATI WATER BUREAU--but aware enough to scrub your balls
and wash your hair. To you the droplets pelting your back are nothing like
piss or shit or industrial waste, they are warm flakes of amniotic fluid
cushioning your sore arms, embracing your wrinkled dick,
streaming across your pockmarked skin screaming
"alive, alive, wake up you sack of shit
you are alive!"
this took several hours to re-write. the original version was about half as long and to be honest I don't know if I ruined it by extending it so much.
any thoughts or critiques would be very much appreciated; if you're interested in the original, it was originally posted here.
thank you for reading my poem.