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neophyte club
by Laura Doom
Before you pass your first sentence
before you make your first move
before you first perceive the light
someone somewhere hates you.
In defiance of science,
I bought some timescale remover
to help flush away the promises
I failed to keep
writing, and the deadlines
I failed to meet
in secret, while the world
made itself up, a re-invention
that turned circles into atmosspheres,
clouds into super-charged cells.
When there is nothing left
but to turn right
or engage in abstention,
a dead metaphor buys me
the ultimate zero-day excuse
to contemplate, to navigate
a temporal continuum that slithers
from here to ad nauseam.
Once I have been hunted down,
exsanguinated, eviscerated and stuffed,
a new franchise spontaneously appears
to welcome me with open arms,
its native tongue lapping
stagnant pools of platitudes
until it swells to a size
that defies articulation.
The campaign page encrypts
glitz-pomp industrialists
who deconstruct our box-set myths
embedded in pandemic scripts
infected with necrotizing fascism,
a beautiful disease that feeds
on self-defacing altruism
spitting out Grande gestures
ascribed to the cosmetic
re-alignment of flightless bards.
I am a dish, serving a satellite,
a coarse vessel for caustic thought
the downstream source for defamation
the unacceptable face of anonymity
all fingers and thumbscrews
vices and devices, a fanatic
immersed in a transatlantic bubble
bathing in eclectic juices
that drown the dark pedantic.
Will I think less of those
who wish for nothing more
than more of the same?
Or of you, when you expect nothing
less than absolute zero
tolerance?
Until you pass your first examination
until you make your first determination
until you first rerceive the limelight
someone somewhere loves you. 07/18/2017 Posted on 07/18/2017
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 07/19/17 at 06:17 PM Rich in words...meaning...as always, Laura. I especially like how the body of the poem is sandwiched between the two italics stanzas. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 07/21/17 at 04:31 AM First and last stanzas are fascinating contrasts. I really liked the line breaks with “the promises I failed to keep – writing” and “the deadlines I failed to meet – in secret.” A “dead metaphor” is an intriguing notion. Loved the “new franchise” stanza, “glitz pomp industrialists”, and especially “flightless bards.” “I am a dish, serving a satellite” is so very clever. Worth many reads. Second to last stanza is a killer. |
| Posted by Anita Mac on 07/25/17 at 02:22 AM Your ability to turn a phrase and then make that phrase turn in turn never ceases to delight me, no matter how heavy to subject. |
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