I should have invested
in the electric car industry,
made a profit
and opened a restaurant,
hired a fantastic chef
with his team
of ambitious sous-chefs,
earning one Michelin Star
for its Tandoori Foie Gras,
two, for its deconstructed
and three, for its
Flavours of India —
A culinary experience
that makes Blumenthal’s
The Sound of the Sea
seem like Pav Bhaji
that a chaiwala makes
next to a cheap thrift store.
But here I am/ wandering meandering streets/ the sharp, acidic rain eliciting an anti-hallelujah/ turning round and round like a carousel on speed/ the motion making me sick/ evoking inner Chernobyl/ feverish depression/ the gongs of doom/ the madmen of the apocalypse/ doomsday prophets/ psychotic neophytes/ distorted shadows on the wall threatening to commit violent acts/ the murderous rage of a bigot humiliated/ the gloomy jazz of Povarovo playing Mullholand Dr. with their despondent violins/ hypnotic slow beat/ mesmeric, eerie, atmospheric, harrowing, haunting sounds/ I can’t take it anymore! Save me! Forgive me! I’m not repentant but I need lucidity/ not sibylline predictions of a poor prognosis/ the screeching guitar becoming a faux-minimalist, anti-Einuadic rendition of crime and punishment.
*Breathes a sigh of relief*
Everything must be arranged and neat,
The balcony chair in its proper place,
The cheese and slices of red meat,
The flowers and the decorative vase.
I should have walked
the streets of Rome,
soaked in the Colosseum at dusk,
the golden-brown like burnt copper,
the chipped-off edge
like a limestone shard
pointing to heaven
which doesn’t fascinate me.
After all, the stars are everywhere
and the sky is blue.
I should have beheld the Pantheon
with its sturdy, masculine concrete
without talk of muses and poetic throes,
just the clicking and posting of pictures
with a brunette who’s a ten.
I’m stepping on thorns now/ penance for a mind saturated with Olds and her taboo odes/ Pound’s call to ‘make it new,’/ Roth with his frenzied prose, talking of a man becoming a breast/Portnoy’s complaint/ the need to stay religious while scrolling through images of naked women/ a bitter conflict between scruples and salaciousness/ making me the saucy clergyman/ the prudish degenerate/ quiet psychosis tugging me towards Mickey Sabbath’s corruption and decadence/ raging reservations making this rabbit not run/ Stay Rabbit Stay/ no point in midlife-crises and escapism, and dealing with the neighbourhood pastor/ the mongrels chase me, baring menacing teeth/ the drops of saliva like poisonous dew evoking Donald Ray Pollock and Frank Bill/ trashy but poignant/ meth and madness/ fists thrown and parochial craziness/ I can’t stop! Even though the night chills my bones/ the traffic unsettles me like a macabre horror movie replete with knife wielders and maniacs/ they’re coming for me, I know/ rushing to anaesthetise me/ bind me/ toss me in an institution where I’ll spend my days talking of Plath’s villanelle, Mad Girl’s Love Song with some other crazy-not crazy fellow who feels like a pair of scuttling claws, cooked in a spicy broth while the Gregor Samsas occupy too much space/ I’ll say the gulf war never happened while justifying hadephobia/ a snotty, white-robed ‘prophet of light’ looking on with pills and a syringe/ nodding her head.
*Feels a profound sadness*
Everything must be unnaturally clean,
Even though it’s only me who’s looking on;
Arrange the tables or I’ll become so mean;
I want no cracks, dents or a dirty john.
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