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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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FRANK HOPKINS
mADNESS IN e-MINOR I cannot hear you now no amount of shouting nor shouted insult nor designing hookers out for tea can make me hear you. All my heroes are transparent, their weakness’s translucent, their voices wet with fear. All my heroes are schizophrenic now- cursing wildly at things unspoken and unseen, Threatening disembodied enemies...demanding an apology from a God long retired, begging. . .begging for one more victory. Sad, how terribly sad; tragically sad; comically sad- I cannot hear you now, cannot make out the slurred words, dramatic pause and pose," Grind! Grind!" says the stone master, "Your bodies I will break and your blood be mixed with gemstone. Grind damn you." We are suicides too soon undone, debris among the rocks with no memory to call us home...I cannot hear you now. Litany On The Ninth Day While you were sleeping I decided your life for you decided your future and past decided how you will smile and when. While you were sleeping I paid off old debts removed dead skin with a mortician’s care blessed ungainly children and forgave their ugly parents. While you were sleeping I imagined how you would taste if I sliced you open filleting the soft meat from rough muscle adding salt and just a pinch of flour. While you were sleeping disturbing voices came to me offering all manner of unholy union offering baubles and trinkets from another time. While you were sleeping I took great care not to disturb you I took many oaths and made promises wrote in blood my answer to the many numbered questions that lined the folds of salted skin. Crawl I went to see The Electric Mistress with roses born from gun metal shavings with thorns sharpened lovingly waiting to lacerate skin and drink deep from small sufferings made with care. I no longer live in the same house now I no longer have a point of view nor a point of no return. I went to see The Electric Mistress to receive my communion in front of passionless parishioners and professional mourners all gathered for my delectation. I am no longer hungry now and if I were I could not tell you what I would be hungry for. I went to see The Electric Mistress so that I could think in whispers and speak in tongues. I lay me down on blankets made from thistles the run-off from my wounds to keep me warm...The only caress that truly belongs to me..the only kiss left me. Frank Hopkins has been published in Shouted whisper, Farmhouse magazine and Serenity's garden. 20 years ago he published an anthology and won poet of the year twice. Currently lives in NYC and finds the world a truly disturbing place. |
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© 2007 Underground Voices |
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