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Relapse

by Chris Sorrenti

 

                   Regret comes in clusters; Fear,

                                                              geometric form;

                                    It has sides and curves,

                                       obtuse angles

                                        constructing

                                          into

                                          a rollercoaster.

 

                   Panic attacks arrive

                       by the millileter, and

                       you can run as far

                       as you want to,

                   but there's

                         no escaping

                         the toilet bowl

                         of error; every head comes with one,

                                        but they don't all look the same.

                       The porcelain sitting crooked on the floor

                   is dazzle camouflage

                      planted

                      in a sea of turquoise.

 

                             And the clusters arrive and go;

                                               ten foot thick

                                               telephone poles

                                              dancing

                                              with your brain. Talk to someone,

                                                                                about something, anything,

                                                                              and the chain saw comes out,

                                                                              its teeth hungrily

                                                                              shattering the wood.

                                                         Out of each disintegration flies

                                                         fear's nemesis,

                   its wings never to know the word "geometry." 

 

 

                        ©  1991

 

 

03/09/2005

Posted on 03/09/2005
Copyright © 2016 Chris Sorrenti

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 03/09/05 at 09:32 PM

A singular view of what must be a drug relapse! The mosaic of a brain gone haywire! Quite intriguing, a kind of insanity of language. Violent too!(at least mentally). :)

Posted by Michele Schottelkorb on 03/10/05 at 12:53 PM

"no escaping the toilet bowl of error; every head comes with one, but they don't all look the same."... oh wow, chris... your visuals here send me back in time... yes, you write it so well... blessings...

Posted by Maureen Glaude on 03/10/05 at 05:27 PM

the sense of pending doom of the panic attack well depicted here. It can relate to many of us, in certain situations, like high escalators for me.

Posted by Mary Ellen Smith on 03/11/05 at 06:57 PM

Well I don't know about anyone else..but now I'm afraid! Vividly written!

Posted by Glenn Currier on 10/04/09 at 12:48 PM

Chris, thanks for this and the courage it took to write it. This is one of your more creative poems, born of angst and falling. I know the feelings of that chain saw and the title.

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