by Laura Doom
"Isn't it time you were married?"
I look at my watch, scrape frost
from its face; it tells me "28°".
I assume she is tripping, this woman
wearing me down, and a banana
skin-suit; her voice rises above
affront, then stalls. "I've come as
an aubergine", though she hears
something different, and blanches.
This inversion caught the attention
of two sweet potatoes who escorted me
from the premises. Without further
inference, I loaded an android app
and shot myself in the raw. After
conversion, a normal distribution
plotted little white lies before
their eyes, as I prepared myself
to taste autonomy in the outsized world.
The time is now 400 joules per mile.
In pursuit, a minimal group hurls
obscenities at my diminished figure;
ahead, the geopolitical ramifications
burn like candles in a chapel. A wisp
of fear curls up my nose, and I...
sneeze. The explosion blows my cover,
creating an illusion that is lost
in translation no matter how I dress it up.
Posted on 02/05/2012
Copyright © 2017 Laura Doom
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 02/09/12 at 04:56 AM|
Way to get my attention on that first line. I've had a couple of people ask me the same thing. And the poem only gets better from that great start.