Home | Poetry | Paperclips

Paperclips

Poetry by Kurt Broz

The Donner party continues late,

Playing vinyl records of symphonies

Under streamers made of super novas

And confetti of the old poems

I wrote when younger,

Dancing in the snow in Denver,

Fattening on the first-born sons of Egypt

I wonder why Dr. Seuss

Never killed the Lorax

Sitting on a tree stump.

 

I twist and stretch inside the Joker,

To wear him like a suit,

Hiding behind a half-assed Cheshire smile,

Becoming him, knowing that even in the deep end

Of the city pool,

My smile will permeate my skin

Only to help smile and forget

The fetus I cut our of myself and put in a shoebox

Covered in dust and sticky

From the years of cross-dressing.

I cut it out of myself, thinking it was a portrait

Of Bob Hope sitting on a mushroom

 

Flipped twice and redirected on a reel.

The mushroom and the poppies sit quietly at dinner,

Green eggs run from pronged attacks

Under bridges of brick and mortar,

Through the whispering fog of London.

 

The night does not allow my passage

But rather its scent bends to a ripe

Salmon rotting,

Catering to Jack the Ripper

Who is inviting over Bundy

For midnight tea

Because Marilyn is sick

 

With Streptococcus,

I am suddenly return to my childhood

When I imagined myself as soldiers

Or superheroes made of plastic.

I was a pathetic doll

 

My only accessory was a lamp without a pull-

Chain made of  skin,

And a gasmask colored a camouflage

Lavender and black crying wolf

Is the only option

Because the crossword I was doing

Said, “…a four letter word for love…”

And amplexus didn't fit. 

 

When the paint fumes settle

And the date rape drugs remember being used

On my best friend’s little sister,

I rebuild the pyramids using scotch tape

And glue made from Borax

Swirled with wet dreams and

Ruby stones and

butterfingers,

I am

Because of a God

Or the joining of some atoms

 

Bonded by electrons….

So in the pinkish sounds of steam engines

Beaten up by trucking companies,

I pull the trigger of my Grandfather’s rusted rifle,

And my brains cover the canvas

of my bedroom door.

 
SHARE: DIGG Add to Facebook Add To Any Service! Reddit this
All Comments require admin approval.
Newsletter
Email:
  • email Email to a friend
  • print Print version