UNDERGROUND VOICES MAGAZINE/CHRIS MAJOR

CHRIS MAJOR

OD

In that pitch swamp
that mire and mirk,
you're somewhere
swimming an ink oblivion.
Words try to kindle
glowing scenes you might recall,
but grey ashtray eyes
stub out them all before
they flutter and flare,
give glare for you
to fix on,
to follow.
So all we do is wait,
wonder if you'll return,
when,
and with how much
of the life now
being consumed,
its bits spat
to a plasma screen.......

Prozac

His head maybe swimming,
but something drowned
months ago;
and as it sank,
its screams bubbled
to the surface,
and
broke
as
smiles.