Searching for Your Doppelganger
The eyes stare into your breast's hollow
take back the night
from principles of asphodels.
Leaving us the bare minimum
of tricks to pull at midnight,
duping the unwise men in the alley
waiting for food scraps in dumpsters
to segue through foggy interstices,
focusing finally on the copulating essence
of darkness with dawn
drawing false curtains on the stage.
There natural scenery blurs into infinity
& the participle of the golden word crashes
against that flesh becoming us:
for we cannot act through simulations
of ourselves in the arms of our tyranny,
nor traipse idly through the dust fields
of those who must die for something
beyond their zombie selves
Dreams of the Social Media Soul Sister
Urban mushroom seeding sick desires
I can't stomach when preternaturally sober!
Lend us the visionary nutmeg instead
to fortify the national fiber gone slack:
language means nothing in the tyrant's gams
aping those verbose lyrics of hangmen
waiting for resurrection martyrs to ply
with injections of fey shock-serum.
What rapper Pharaoh whispers the obscene
message from a cracked brown bottle
into my ear's cluttered nexus beyond
sins of fathers mites bugger dust balls
forever burrowing into rapture
of tympanic whiskey-soaked dreams
beating the last rhythms of a dead echo
Two Wild & Crazy Guys in Sin City
Thick as once cloistered weeds
they bar-stumbled casino heavens,
& blowing simulated smog rings
I wondered who let the boys in.
Doggy-like with sepia smiles bewildered
by brandy droplets clinging in cuticles,
laughing gassed to their ginzo gills
cutting up the neon jungle with bad jokes
& retro-salty lyrics from forgotten songs,
they insisted happily I buy them a drink
while recounting ups-&-downs of marriage
tanking into the detritus of divorce courts.
It can't be as bad as brimstone hell here,
can it? Yet there's no closing time
machines so wishy-washy with TILT!
or a long built-in losing mode
to stifle fervid gambling fantasies.
They couldn't be a couple of Connie Francis clones,
but in this age of surgical wonders,
what the hell, bring me the knife.
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he's been active in small press circles both as editor and small press scribe. His new poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium, from the Medulla Review Publishing. He has recent poetry in Dead Snakes, The Beatnik Cowboy and elsewhere.
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