Who sucked the emotion out of poetry?
There it is
on the floor twitching
flopping and bouncing on the tile
obviously fighting off death.
It’s a much deeper red than I thought
and it’s glistening with stickiness.
Isn’t it sort of depressing
the way we all stand around it in a circle
pointing fingers and covering mouths?
we take turns reciting verse in eulogy
even though the poor thing isn’t dead.
We really are some cruel fuckers.
Tom reads a poem about asphalt
Kathy follows up with one about bird droppings
Erica speaks of her vagina again
and Bill his old penis.
There’s a million people it seems
locked into this circle fascinated
as emotion gasps for water
and the mundane verse recital continues.
It’s my turn
I almost forget because watching emotion die
is incredibly like using a fine narcotic.
“My poem. . .”