going 90 into slow
sea veined as the verso
side of a tarot card...a vending
machine that won't foment
change, tossing
her mud-smirched tresses
into the black sugar
on the other side...and the scissor
sisters of mercy remembering
the white coffee of oblivion,
their hair like smoke wafting
from the chimney of a
slurpee straw, curlyqueueing
up to the lowest stratum of the mind,
the sacrificial altar--
purple light bursting
on red brick turning
orange--flowers of evil
sucking the liferust from tincans
and crisscrossing girders,
drifting nightly through aileron-
hewn space...
This poem ratt-a-tats with caffeine-induced madness against my ears when I read it aloud. (The picture at the top adds a maniacal whirl to your off-the-wall wordsmithing) A jackhammer ripsnorter of a poem like this makes me want to guzzle a gallon of espresso and leap over the stratosphere.
RépondreSupprimerThanks for the comment, Raj. My wordsmithery can be literally off the wall: I glean words from bulletin boards in coffee shops, graffiti spraypainted on boxcars, whatever. As well as more conventional repositories of language. Anything can mix with anything. Do you like espresso? I thought you were a tea man.
RépondreSupprimerI am truly a tea addict--not for the caffeine so much as the taste. Tea is rooted in my routine and my writing process--I rarely begin writing without a demitasse of tea beside me--but I do like coffee/espresso/cappucino sometimes. I generally stay away from coffee because of some connotations I have with it (I tend to associate it with mundanity because of the awful-tasting brew daily made at my house by my sisters and dad), but I venture out of my way to have espresso every now and then. But tea is my first love, and I inevitably return to it, day after day.
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