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Once upon a pre-madonna?
by Laura DoomIn a blaze of anonymity
the dead resume activity
pariahs wear proclivity
with such amazing grace.
Soul-searching takes a savaging
parades its lifeless packaging
a prayer for something more
than filling sympathetic space.
And thus their lives are tapered to
fixed points of pristine levity,
a palliative brevity
that lends itself to praise.
Resigned, she sighs; just passing through
disturbs the equilibrium
disrupts her train of trivium
that borrows from malaise.
The world prostrates itself, for now
its unsung diva takes a bow
as self-proclaimed unholy cow,
our faith in goth procured.
By pit of mosh proximity
cosmetic anonymity
derives contrived asymmetry,
a place in hell assured.
Ex machina, her blackened blue
performance breeds anxiety,
the horrors of variety
a self-fulfilling curse.
And yet, she smiles; can it be true
that pleasure masquerades as pain?
Let's wind her up, engage her brain
and run her in reverse. 12/01/2008 Author's Note: recycling detritus
Posted on 12/01/2008
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 12/01/08 at 02:02 PM Absolutely great stuff Laura! And are not all pre-madonnas in our own right? |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 12/01/08 at 03:19 PM ...ahh, after several reads, i saw it more and more...you cover a lotta ground and yet 'we' stay in one place, i.e. the human condition and 'conditioning' re: we've become a nation/world of voyuers, that has become perceived as fixation and transference, so a madonna is us--each and every 'us'...heavy write, good. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 12/01/08 at 06:29 PM Sounds like she's going to have a hell of a lot of company. Awesome work, my dear. |
| Posted by Anita Mac on 12/02/08 at 12:19 AM This thing is loaded... Love it! |
| Posted by Rachelle Howe on 12/02/08 at 04:01 AM F'ing cool. Ironically, I read "reverse" and started reading it backward. Try it: the inflection can really spark some interesting hues. |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 12/07/08 at 01:30 AM
This all came spinning out at once, doesn't it? Don't tell me any different. The window flinks itself open for a breather, then as you look into your (temporarily quiet, if not lonesome) - ignored garden that keeps the agora in your phobe, words spill out and you shake the ink out onto a computer. I'm sure of't.
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