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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 01/2012
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RILEY SPILMAN 45 29 Cat heads float around this city Like Cheshires with grey whiskers Moving in riddles found on newspaper stands Saying something about the murders People bring their televisions outside And watch it in the garden SOME SPECTACLE They fear the storm cloud moving in With all the ravages of history That might bury them all Only when one wanders alone in this place They remember Someone is cutting the heads off cats Follow the trail of red memories Search for it Search for the [window] And the entire world will come together All of it now: The first was a twenty something Prostitute dumped on the outskirts of the city Investigation was clumsy A semen sample lost Murder ignored until added With the others The body of a girl, nineteen About two miles from the city Hair matted with blood Although no visible cuts on the head Face swollen from blunt trauma Marks on the neck suggest strangulation Both legs were recently broken Anal and vaginal tearing Not clear on cause of death Her eyes watch the West A day later an old man came across another corpse On his way home from the factory The body was impaled with a metal rod Arms spread out like Christ Extensive damage to the face She was gagged with a rag Blood was found under her nails A stab wound in the abdomen (That seemed to of occurred after death) Possibly fourteen years of age No one has claimed her body Another Found twenty meters from the last Crude cuts on the body Signs of rape and struggle Both eyes missing Either a bird or the killers responsible Nearby the prints of possibly four horses Tomorrow once again Black hair blue eyes Early twenties Half buried in the desert Her right breast torn away As if chewed off Skirt in tatters cut up like her body Decomposition will place the murder Six to eight days old No one will claim her Despite numerous suspects and arrests The list of victims grows at a steady pace The tally shows 45 girls 29 cats So we forget these things And return to our corners Between the alleys and the cafes Lies an emptiness that flows With the skeletons of Mexican girls Mixing with all those bones Deep in the sand and aquifers And between those the seals that separate and bind Seem and seeming Jazz horns paint the horizon In colors of mosquitos Seven sound in unison The city cannot hold It is born You go home in a brown haze As the rust cloud descends on the city Washing away the cigarette butts and bodies and dreams You search around your house only to find Nothing In the cupboards, empty cups Shredded paper topples over a desk A flutter of wings and a distant moan The cats flee and whisper its name As they fade into the carnivorous mouths of factories To escape the cloud descending like a nude The [window] turns an iceberg at night And outside becomes a cold enigma You follow a noise but the building creaks with old cats And your last cup of coffee is empty Not there Looking inside the hollow You think not all is empty in there Then you turn and waiting outside the [window] You see it |
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© 2004-2012 Underground Voices |
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