"(Spawn" By David Saltaire)
Times being what they are
I look out the window
at dirty streets and passing cars
and it seems all the bright sunlight
is a lie.
That there are so many lies
so many foolish hands covering
worried eyes, open mouths
and so much terror that it bores
like endless shocks eventually
bring numbness, as your hair falls out
and is sucked down the hospital drain.
And here I am
typing away in the bluish glow
of a testtube cigarette TV screen
unable, it seems,
to do anything but record the night
in the despairing brightness
of the silent, heated day.
Thunder cracks the shell of silence
Clouds roll in like Armadas of doom
but only cubic zirconia particles
drop from the pewter skies today
nothing wet or nourishing
just the insult of eternal expectations
a soap opera with black and white parts
for everyone except
you and me
and no plot in sight
no wonder Amelia Earhart lost herself
in the bitter winds over desert lands.
So maybe it’s not a good idea
to click and point at the frozen answers
not moving anyway, nor will they
and I’m not going to cash in on
dreams, American or otherwise.
Some people claim to find
God in their hand-held device,
Some people hear demons in
the fillings of their teeth.
I heard the Doors the other night
like licorice whips melting
into carnival tea
but all I could think was
Jim Morrison, you swaggering ass
you were miles before the end.
You and I know what the end looks like