Monday, October 7, 2013

"Fridge" by Dima

A wildly jubilant creation, birthed in the scarlet rays of moonset after the long literary labour of Bad Poetry Night.


I.
SILENCE!
THE THUNDEROUS HUNGER THUNDERS!
The gongs of the walls of my tremulous belly summon the hour
like so many triangles
on the ranch.
RING A LING LING LING LING!  COME AND GET IT!
boys.
come and get it.
The scent has called them
Long ago
From their labours.
they labour.
They sniff.
RING A LING LING LING!  COME AND GET IT!  BEHOLD!  THEY COME TO GET IT!  AT LONG LAST THEIR SWEAT WILL BE REWARDED.
Their sweat.
Their perspiration.
The succulent juice of life and mere feral essence freshly squeezed from the tangerine of God’s ultimate creation!
BEHOlD!  MAN!  HE HUNGERS!
By the sweat of his brow.
Brown brows bow in the bowl of bolted bastions.

II.
So MANY YEARS AGO
I REMEMBER
I remember
I cry
AND REMEMBER
this knocking.
HARK!  A MOUSE!
It scurries behind yon panel of stainless steel.
We embrace.  It is warm and yet inside so cold.  Can it ever know me as I have known the biting wind of the purpure twilight of dying romance?
Joanna.
yet still it babbles to me.
in my arms it whispers sweet nothings.  the pipes knock tenderly.
NO!  There is no mouse!
No!
No!
MOTHER!
I will not call no technician Never!
Never!
She speaks!
To me!
I must pull away
The lies
And All that keeps me from Her.
The one who fills me with filling.
Dust.
Oh, the DUST!
Grimy and dark and sacred and dusty.
She knocks again.  She speaks again.
I stare
With longing emerging from deep within my bowels
from the spot
The hollow spot
Where my appendix used to be
fourteen years ago
before it ruptured.
It was Removed
In a 54 minute surgery.
i stare
It is dark.  Into the dark.
I am engulfed.

III.
In an hour
I will sit at the crumb-ridden table.
I will stare at the dish rag in my hands.
i will regard with shame
Shame!
The mustard on my new white t-shirt.
I just bought it yesterday.
I have taken all that she would give to me!
EVERYTHING!
Why must I take?
Why!
Nothing remains inside.
I am become death
The Destroyer
of AppETITES.
O CURSED INCONTINENT APPETITE!
Filled.
Filled AGAIN.
Fulfilled.
The Cut
On my cold nose
STINGs.
The salty brine of nostalgic remorse washes past it.
I think of the one I have loved.
Loved too much.
She knocks.

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