Poetry by Otis Eliott
From the planks of a dampened room,
draped over the mantels,
breathing sandpaper atmosphere,
Some hang like monkeys,
from aluminum ceilings,
where the only sense of design,
comes from consequential defeat.
for the first time in our bubblegum lives,
outward, as the estuary,
than this manic cardboard platform
where we find ourselves at every sundown,
The Pacific morning, what does it communicate to you?
half complete – never mind.
Couldn’t care less – they,
drunk on coal,
marching out into the courtyard
demanding my system is de-iced in an instant,
while orbiting the moon,
mane soaked in full fat cola.
Throw me to the lions,
ahead – dueling landscapes with their armory disabled,
in waterworld, there are no victors,
only the floating corpses
of everyone you love and know,
bellies as buoys,
wet rotting nervous system.
By the arrival of Bangladesh
our clocks will have stopped.