Methylene\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n
here is where the dying starts,
\nthree days into fire and wake.
\nthis taste as much like old disease
\nthe tongue of sleep in protest,<\/p>\n
\u00a0our base is flooding
\nblue and yellow,
\ncotton blooms behind the eyes,
\norganic gauze and sacks of valium,
\nsoaked beyond capacity.<\/p>\n
\u00a0this flotsam living,
\nfar beyond the reach
\nof breaking waves receding.
\nthis is midweek Methylene and<\/p>\n
\u00a0nothing new about it.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Fifteen Minutes<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I spoke into the machine
\nyou were there
\nand soulless poems fell;<\/p>\n
bottles on the floor and empty glasses
\nhigh on shelves beyond our reach.
\nrazors in the sinew,<\/p>\n
\u00a0shards of opiated reminiscence,
\nhow the eyes, lain flaccid, cast an obelisk of stone,<\/p>\n
cemetery dances, rings of posies,
\nbiohazard muzzles<\/p>\n
\u00a0and we sang with lungs of poison.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Infanticidal Daydreams<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
this web, ethereal where we spin
\nour rerun revolutions down\u2014
\nwe are not a generation of anything to note,
\nof anything to sing about in glory\u2019s retrospect,<\/p>\n
whatever we together may have had
\nin lifetimes, aeons, minutes falling off the clock ago
\nbuffers our fragility. and weakened, left on mountainsides
\nof server racks and hand-held satisfaction<\/p>\n
bones of children laugh at us through dust.<\/p>\n
how we came to be here now defies a thickened fortitude
\nelders aimed at helpless cries
\nthat died in time alone.<\/p>\n
wombs that bore us hide their tears of shame in poisoned wells,
\nlamenting over bones quiet, now gone<\/p>\n
replaced by solecisms; we are satellites around the core.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Catacomb<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
the room was full
\nof bones rolled hard
\nin starch
\nand wrapped in cellophane.<\/p>\n
no place to bury ghosts
\nwhere head stones, bulbous grew
\nthe names of bastards, mothers,
\nghouls
\nalike and here once more<\/p>\n
now
\nlaid together
\nand forever to each other,
\nby umbilical and heart-strung guile<\/p>\n
cast on cold and embryonic truths.<\/p>\n
\n
Fuse<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
grenades inside the valentines,
\nland mines in the isle\u2014
\nexplosions and debris of sentimental gestures;
\nand we were merely ignorant,
\na woeful indestructibility, desirous and in pain.
\nfallout from the time that passed\u2014
\nthe cold, macabre backdrop to the scene
\nwe played out, burning film like there
\nwould never be tomorrow.
\nwould never be a curtain call.
\nwould never be the vulnerable ones,<\/p>\n
\u00a0destroyed by all that mattered.<\/p>\n
\n
<\/p>\n
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,\u00a0Zero Division<\/em>, 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.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Methylene\u00a0 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, \u00a0our base is flooding blue and yellow, cotton blooms behind the eyes, organic gauze and sacks of valium, soaked beyond capacity. \u00a0this flotsam living, far beyond the reach of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2276","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n