here is where the dying starts,
three days into fire and wake.
this taste as much like old disease
the tongue of sleep in protest,
our base is flooding
blue and yellow,
cotton blooms behind the eyes,
organic gauze and sacks of valium,
soaked beyond capacity.
this flotsam living,
far beyond the reach
of breaking waves receding.
this is midweek Methylene and
nothing new about it.
I spoke into the machine
you were there
and soulless poems fell;
bottles on the floor and empty glasses
high on shelves beyond our reach.
razors in the sinew,
shards of opiated reminiscence,
how the eyes, lain flaccid, cast an obelisk of stone,
cemetery dances, rings of posies,
and we sang with lungs of poison.
this web, ethereal where we spin
our rerun revolutions down—
we are not a generation of anything to note,
of anything to sing about in glory’s retrospect,
whatever we together may have had
in lifetimes, aeons, minutes falling off the clock ago
buffers our fragility. and weakened, left on mountainsides
of server racks and hand-held satisfaction
bones of children laugh at us through dust.
how we came to be here now defies a thickened fortitude
elders aimed at helpless cries
that died in time alone.
wombs that bore us hide their tears of shame in poisoned wells,
lamenting over bones quiet, now gone
replaced by solecisms; we are satellites around the core.
the room was full
of bones rolled hard
and wrapped in cellophane.
no place to bury ghosts
where head stones, bulbous grew
the names of bastards, mothers,
alike and here once more
and forever to each other,
by umbilical and heart-strung guile
cast on cold and embryonic truths.
grenades inside the valentines,
land mines in the isle—
explosions and debris of sentimental gestures;
and we were merely ignorant,
a woeful indestructibility, desirous and in pain.
fallout from the time that passed—
the cold, macabre backdrop to the scene
we played out, burning film like there
would never be tomorrow.
would never be a curtain call.
would never be the vulnerable ones,
destroyed by all that mattered.
Joseph Gant is a poet and flash fiction writer/editor. Joseph was born in 1978 in southern New Jersey. There he studied glassblowing, science, and Tibetan Meditation. His book, Zero Division, a 168 page collection of poems, is published by Rebel Satori Press. His work has also appeared widely in the underground press as well as academic journals, and publications such as Mandala Magazine.