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The Schism of Things
by Laura DoomShe blames the stupid economy
for her inability to trade compliments;
the effects of her first literary kiss
are written all over her face,
non-stick lips agloat, gleaming
like bruises under a mercenary sky.
The apostles' calypso—written, recorded
and renounced at a series of trash-hop
trailer camps—babbles and squawks
above the preconscious audience, high
on anti-static mouthwash and rumours
raised as micro-medicated monologues.
Beneath a heat haze fuelled by halitosis,
farm-hands in 3-D blindfolds compare
genital alleles with metronomic precision,
pulling science down to earth on a prayer.
"And who is she?" they ask themselves,
each ignorant of the others' ignorance.
After dark, an algorithm rises
from the pit of collective disparity;
datelines merge and multiplex,
time capsules swallow their hosts
and autonomic rhetoric goes viral,
circulating drafts of revenge poetry. 07/16/2015 Posted on 07/16/2015
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 07/17/15 at 05:45 PM Beautifully complex in its jungle of vocabulary and imagery, message...one happily negotiates here. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 07/20/15 at 09:41 PM Just plain delicious - your inimitable ease (sleight of pen hand) with clever turns of phrase, dead pan deliver, vocabulary that tickles my funny bone, make me come back for seconds. I consume and thank you. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 07/20/15 at 09:41 PM probably should be "delivery".... |
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