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Poetry || SubmissionsPoems by Nathan VersawKung Pow Chicken I rearranged my room for ambiance. I chased god into a corner for kicks. I resemble a vast collage of cut-up newspaper clippings. I am a man on a quest, Magellan like. I bleed in warm hues across the canvas of life. I eat the earth in a bowl of bratwurst. I hear the tunes devoured by the subtext. I cross patterns mixed up like an anagram. I have the serpent. I have the follower. I have fifty seven cards in a fifty two card deck. and I am ready to bluff the world. gauge my incoming message texted to the page as sculpture to the stone I crawl back thru the earth as a worm with warn eyelids cuddle up in front of the neon tv tube listen to Tom Brokaw spill the news of the crisis in Afghanistan check out time at hotel disassembled is eleven o'clock watch the watch trail off to the pasture with Mao and his mix summon the young to betray the father mother fucker with a blooming palm of baby's breath wake up to the ceiling fan chopping away your sad screaming dreams like a sushi knife in a cheap suburban Chinese restaurant 7.99 for the dinner buffet I sit in front of kung pow chicken. average suburban afternoon tv tube got me in a trance staring blankly at the signal saving my secluded heart from fire and hate freeing myself in sloth as I eat away the tears of abortion freaks and pregnant teenagers with hand down pants watching spring break on mtv in the prime of my youth. confetti I am at the core bleeding drowning in emphatic glory weeping the sun weeping the swan with one last cry bellowing the burnt soil of a thousand peacock men marching the paved evolution when politicians expand upon the math when the tv educates the brazen mass I switch through the channels looking for the plot with the cemeteries just behind the wall and waiting or do you hear the wind circle your end like vultures looking for the prize so to be so to be I must breath water through lungs swim to the bottom and lay wilted like a bad rose on a bad valentines day with machine guns whizzing the water like the cackle of popcorn fire watch the confetti of my generation rain the air with belief as men with ropes slap keys into the unknown not knowing why only a dream so to be so to be wasted on tears falling on the train tracks in the blink of an eye watching through the hour glass some sadness never bleeds itself dry I kiss smoke to the walls implode in magic staring up at the night stars a dog barks I'm transported back to non-belief. sweat laced hands spoon-faced and lethargic the half drunken moon lighting the pebble path Sunday rooming in the house that father built sorry-filled walls with crawling snake-like things that the doom has surrounded us.that the world implodes in spastic Technicolor dreams but a cold frying pan but a damp cloth on the neck, an aspirin for the head sun crying through the blinds like lost worms use baby to describe innocence, the snake for evil, the Jungian of things, oppositions the houses lined like market fish waiting on the stove top the bicycle wheels spinning the spun dream as outside in the frost frozen night the cat screeches for food the madman throws bullets in the chilled air me alone in a cave protected behind American airwaves as the bombers blanket the sand-baked earth half past the globe and coming closer the roots of trees crooning the tune the fields overrunning with joyous peonies, weeping the condensation as the banjo picks it's laughter as alone as alone as alone as the orange peel, discarded as alone as the falling snow sweat from the rooftop in decay in December dismembered or perhaps on the moon staring down the beaten path once, twice and three times into the mythical night wise men fold their cards and clean up for the night lying in a bed with casino dreams, eating his matelote in Paris envy I am troubled, I am troubled, I am troubled from boot to brain that the fish will fall to the ocean bottom and I, will rise again, perhaps to greet the sad sun again with desecrated eyes and soft sad fingers in a bubble in an aeroplane smooth as feather flight strong as tigers tooth but no less sad as a screaming death sad as the dead leafs subdued yawn in fall-driven madness I am sad for my voice like a snowflake forgotten in the dead flesh killing of January skin sad that the kiss weak as fallen ash from the burning false belief that the fist might in all it's terrible glory conquer the gift. the death of butterflies I'm amazed at my sight in the mirror bouncing back reverse trying to dig past the retina and swim through the arteries, deep down inside as if to find a nucleus to the soul I rise in the morning firm in my resolve eager to be at the finish line looking back over my shoulder reminiscing the escapade otherwise known as my Life at the core of most contemporary talk I see nothing accomplished that a bowel movement wouldn't supersede I look out the window somehow I see things as they are truly trying to be: take that leave out there on the sidewalk dying the cancer of winter frozen stiff formaldehyde on the concrete I peel it open with my eyes and fly through it's pain I over intoxicate myself at parties in order to escape their repressing chatter and in the morning my head drums hangover red, pulsating rapid machine gun vibration to dirty to chatter, to mad to bond I save the style for the stylized I shit freely in the company of animals I excuse myself from the table I walk to a different tune straight down the path least chosen I camp on the beaches of the mind watching the waves rise above my head crashing down and sending me to my heels gasping a watery breath when I was a child there was a god, a need for meaning, motivation towards the magic, I've since learned of the death of butterflies and lilacs woke up screaming in nightmare fantasies trying to dial 911 as mother lay in a jail south of the mountain side consumer decapitation in the morning I lie awake barely not able to rise the alarm clock ringing metal in my ear if life is art then what is decay? step out of bed pop a pill heat the car up a cat runs across the snow every life a fuse burning every inane step a door way a kingdom of senses looking out through freeway eyes staring down time every lie a selling out of sorts in assortment on a shelf in an aisle big, bold blaring and beautifully banal About Nathan Versaw: I'm twenty-five years old. I was born, raised, and cultivated in the Mormon mecca of the world, Salt Lake City, Utah. I am not Mormon. Currently, I work as a printing press operator. I think growing up and living in a conservative right-wing environment has geared my writing more towards the disassociated. Besides writing I enjoy reading, drawing, and any sport you can do with a beer can in your hand. I encourage any comments/criticisms towards my work. e-mail: nversaw@earthlink.net Today's Situation
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