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Letting The Cables Weep [the sound of two heads collapsing]
by Laura DoomII: Reverb as Aberration
When festive fever chokes the sun
I squeeze acrylic refuge
from my catatonic tubes,
derive as far as eye can see
beyond the gold dust pan of ratio
to vanish at my breaking point,
resistance stripped by av/dc slavery
wading through the shallows of spaghetti.
LIVID: The End Just Defies The Means
Not that I've acquired a rep
for creativity with pasta;
rather I imagine it a splash
of milky whey to fill the cracks
in time-lined deep-space analogue
a dribble-dash distraction sprayed
upon the walls of overstated oceans;
once the septic sea runs dry
I piss electrocuted dreams,
all washed up on love's deserted metaphor.
IV: The Feeding of The 5.1
A careless thought goes vocal
at the frequency reserved
for abstract impropriety
while cables scramble to decode
the wired world of industrial waste.
LCD: The Site of Venereal Unease
From here ad nauseam
as far as I can see
everything has a beginning
and an end; between those false horizons
is all the shit that happens
to be shit, when that is all
that can be seen. Don't ask
about the nescience that underwrites
eternity, or fine art exhibitions
of infinity; nothing could be further
from my mind as it negotiates
surrender to the pleasures
myonecrotized beneath your flesh.
MIX: No Idea
We don't talk concepts--I'd go on
and on forever, oblivious
to the soporific stupor that invites
contagion to catch your breath.
Sudden death is not a syndrome
but a mouth devoid of inspiration,
destination digitized.
As analogy lives
so metaphor dies
it is what it is
simple as simile
as naked an excuse
as ever you would publish
on your cryogenic sleeve.
DD: Taking It Serially
The person with whom I last conversed
was a figment of my imagination,
some high definition dealer
of drama, interfacial tensions scored
in linear progression, a fast-tracked
dialogue firefought by neo6 cinematic lips.
XOR: Making Sense of Remote Icons
Meanwhile, subconsciousness ghosts along
in soiled sheets, moaning that you
will never submit to spiritual conversion
by this pornographite interlocutrix.
Copper twists the relationship
between my inner thighs and sterile moss
gathering momentum for it's final push
towards a healthy state of playfulness
in moderation's flames.
02/08/2011 Posted on 02/08/2011
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Clara Mae Gregory on 02/08/11 at 11:21 PM My glasses broke the other day and I thought at first it said "to varnish at my breaking point,"...and "Do: Taking It Seriously"
until I squinted my poor old eyes...and as always, I find your work a fun delight to read! Thank you!
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| Posted by Ulyss Rubey on 02/23/11 at 07:50 PM Another masterful multivalence of kaleidoscoptic
interlocutrix. |
| Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 02/24/11 at 02:20 PM i don't know what it is about these lines, "once the septic sea runs dry
I piss electrocuted dreams,
all washed up on love's deserted metaphor." but i think they are quite amazing. i guess you could say extra fancy gems on an already great piece. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 02/24/11 at 04:37 PM The mystery of it all making sense - and you the mysteriss of wordplayfulness. |
| Posted by Paul Lastovica on 02/26/11 at 10:26 PM i've imagined you playing with words in a sandbox, setting up a peaceful village for annihilation via a kicked over pail of water. |
| Posted by E. A. Pugh on 02/27/11 at 08:49 PM Wonder write copper wire ire fought by neo6 cinematic lips. Lovely Language Lady. |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 03/12/11 at 04:40 PM your vividness flatirons the curls of your wordplay skill which then curls full throttle around your vividnecessity |
| Posted by Max Bouillet on 03/14/11 at 12:49 AM Bridging the binary and the flesh you have managed to wrap your head around the collective unconscious and feel all the digital sinew and sex pumping ones and zeros through the colander of a well used soul before it is used to fill up small communion cups that are never put to lips… but after the third read, I felt you crawling through the convolutions of my brain. Be gentle. |
| Posted by Ben Evans on 10/04/11 at 08:42 PM I like how you've broken the poem into sections with the itallics; I don't how you've arrived at the sub-titles but they work well. You've got an interesting vocabulary, occasionally throwing in an unexpected word like a pinch of spice or seasoning. You've obviously read voraciously across a spectrum of topics and genres and this informs your work, mixing the academic with the banal. I think this and several other of your poems are celebratory revels in the words and sentence structures themselves, some superflous but all hinting at a meaning that you never directly state. I like that ambiguity. |
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