"ventricular" poems - Hello Poetry

The rooster swivels on its axis returning coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity, ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases, between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck), mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream, onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts. The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first, Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter: deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot. Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I snap backwards, up 21 floors, pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot, moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the annals of failure and shove the Fs of my past back then I take the bus instead.

0

Jan 12, 2013

Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC

jiawen

Backwards

The rooster swivels on its axis returning coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity, ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases, between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck), mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream, onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts. The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first, Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter: deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot. Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I snap backwards, up 21 floors, pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot, moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the annals of failure and shove the Fs of my past back then I take the bus instead.