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Mark
Posts: 270
Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 11:19 am

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Post by Mark » Sat Oct 12, 2019 2:49 pm

.
                                           
   ten million dead on the internet
  but the pain in his fingernail
     inside his flattened mind
 is worse than any pale genocide
    
  he feels no nostalgia these days
    for the dazed nights of insomnia
waiting for the haze of daylight
      and the tight ways of paranoia
                                          
  a red cocking knock on the door
 it’s her from the floor above
     her whore’s minutes offer
    more than sucking love

  she counts money inside her head
    and thinks about the multitudes
   of bacteria alive in her eyes
     staining her neon horizons

    ice-cream man needs food
  she thinks within her aura
   of last night’s rubbery probes
 and pheromone tobacco sweat

 the elevator cube smells like fire
   from black rope across an alley maw
 as the mouth and the machine grin sinew
descending into bone circles of silence       

    words on glass, a clash and clatter
   steaming between levitating plates
   the globular walls streaming acid yellow
 eggs wet with visions of cannibal chickens

   as surreal as it seems, this is the safe part
  of the netherworld; this shaky otherworld
      is a patched facsimile of mass memories
    downloaded and broadcast organically

    so, the ice-cream man doesn’t know he’s dead,
   and the whore thinks of somehow escaping
      goatish men, her tortures and the brain wires
   But all the edges here are pinned until tomorrow. 


 

Dave
Posts: 571
Joined: Mon Jan 08, 2018 4:07 pm

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Post by Dave » Mon Oct 14, 2019 7:26 pm

A true Mark poem. Dark, complex and bordering on the incomprehensible yet never dull.
Dave

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Colm Roe
Posts: 905
Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 7:45 am

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Post by Colm Roe » Tue Oct 15, 2019 1:16 am

It's essence lives in S1, 7 & 8...but especially in 1.
Fab images casually strewn all over the other stanzas.
Like this one very much.
 

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