by Laura Doom
One moment my lover is fantasy flesh
the next, an explosion of bone
in a flash, on a phone,
tagged and shared, finger-scrolled;
instant fame and misfortune
a body of evidence
sky high to skyfall
fake hope full of holes.
In the hellfire transition
of dream into nightmare
I regress to a time
when we were immortal
disembodied and content
to waste our lives
on post-apocalyptic waistlines;
to proselytize by secular smiles
flexing shallow skin.
As self-proclaimed works of fiction
we would reminisce about a future
in which she carries me over the threshold
of imagined pain, arranges my body
on a table, etherized for observation
and whispers sweet recriminations
against the character assassins
beneath our bed, whose virtue is procured
by taking out the trash.
Now, unwritten, I am detached
bewitched by the voice
of the silent majority
and burning with a desire
to extinguish myself.
Posted on 11/21/2017
Copyright © 2020 Laura Doom
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 11/22/17 at 09:59 AM|
Second thoughts of the first magnitude, I'd say from my vantage point under the bed. And not disappointed by the resulting poetry.
|Posted by George Hoerner on 11/24/17 at 07:58 PM|
Please don't! I'd miss your poetry!!
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/26/17 at 02:34 AM|
Where to begin. That first stanza is fairly terrifying in the present climate we live where exploding beings seem to be raining down on all continents. Loved the flesh/flash, bone/phone/ that double meaning of "tagged" as it pertains to bodies or photos, social media's infinite desire for drama. Brilliant lines - "a body of evidence weeping inconsequence" and my favorite - "As self-proclaimed works of fiction". To speak or not, to take a punch at the voices under the bed or stay still, not to take up the pen. Thanks for this.
|Posted by George Hoerner on 11/27/17 at 10:12 PM|
Sometimes 'taking out the trash' is all men are good for. But don't use an extinguisher. Whose poetry would I have to read? Nice write lady!
|Posted by Rob Littler on 11/28/17 at 10:07 PM|
Second thoughts lead to thirdfourthfifthinfinity. Virtuoso trash-taker-outer, stunned by the magnitude of my own fading ambivalence, I I I I identify.