Piker Press Banner
August 08, 2022

Untitled

By Mark Parsons

Untitled

Seconds tick like struts around an axis
The fog of her hysteria erects,
The slippery chemical cloud of what she feels
Holding fast, conforming
To the borders
Of a masculine depression,
All the men in her life
There around her,
Smashed to fragments and splinters in jelly
After she took one on the chin,
Become attachment points in firmament
Deaf to the ticking she hears as she lays herself out
On a rough span of vault.
Friction
Of misunderstanding
Multiplies the force from man
To man to man,
Frustrated artists in bank teller's gilt cages,
These men can't comprehend
A woman
Doing what she has to.
They can't remember when it was
What is without mercy, thought, or feeling done
To her, was done to each of them.
Squeezing shut her eyes
Black amoebic shapes in darkness pulse and fade,
As ghostly contours dilate, drift
Out from the focal point,
Each echoing
The one that came before,
Like topo lines
When the elevation changes,
Ring after ring
As tenuous as smoke
Released out of the turbulent
Nothing
Throbbing at the center.
Oozed into the fissure of perceptual isolation
Always just outside the desolate landscape of west Texas,
Or the abyssal plain of the deep ocean floor,
Giving vent
To accumulated navel gazing,
Her intrapersonal network
In the catastrophic moment
Externalized,
A diagram of Day-Glo viscera,
The constellation of
Her imploding
Star-studded defensive unit
Rolls its personnel around her,
Zone coverage spinning
Like a fan,
The mechanical cosmos of sexual intercourse
Swallowed and
Disgorged
Across the killing floor,
A titanium bicycle spoke
Tumbleweed wrapped up in billowing parachute silk,
The hairball of celestial madness
Burnished metallic and cresting strategically blistered on piled-up escapements
Triggered by gender confusion of body dysmorphic disorder
'Cause she does everything
With just one hole,
Every excited utterance
Bearing witness to
Deeper, coiled-up emotion
Never intended to pass public scrutiny:
"Does it matter?"
She thinks with a shudder.
None of them know the song
Almost wound-down
Clockwork vamping anticipates,
Bright metal
Tines Of self-soothing
Going methodically over
What's already been gone over
How many times before
No one precisely recalls.






Article © Mark Parsons. All rights reserved.
Published on 2022-07-04
0 Reader Comments
Your Comments






The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.