“That bastard’s really fucked up.”
crawling through space
waiting for God to appear
I spit and light a smoke,
inhaling the poisonous fumes
I impatiently shake my foot
and hear far-off voices.
“Do you think he’s dead?”
“He’s been dead for a long time sweetie.”
I swim against the currents
of unforeseen rage,
I stagger against electric
fences and begin the charge,
faces weave in and out of focus
with their hideous mouths
always open yawningly.
“He drinks like a fucking fish.”
“Should we call the doctor?”
I wait for the doctor to appear
and mend this broken heart,
no no no no, it’s all wrong,
there has to be something more,
something eternal and real,
wisdom enclosing our souls
with eternal peace and bliss.
“I think I saw him move.”
“No. I accidentally kicked him.”
The attack has begun
I can feel them kicking me viciously,
the bastards will never win,
who do they think they are?
I seek greater things,
they can’t comprehend
what it is I desire, and need.
“Check his pulse.”
“How do you do that?”
I am surrounded by incompetence,
the simple becomes profound
and the profound tedious,
I can feel the earth
shaking and quaking
in the pit of my gut:
with one gasping breath
I am empty and free.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Somebody get a cloth.”
1987
Accepted for publication in Poetry Motel – Duluth, MN – 1988
Correspondence
Notes
- This poem was accepted by Poetry Motel in 1988, they lost all their files and poems to the US government, fought and won and ended up moving from Quebec to Duluth, MN. The ensuing correspondence is included above.
- A poetry reading was done at the Gown’n’Gavel in Hamilton, ON, in July 1998, as an opener before the Hated Uncles.