Poém, Jan. 2010
CINEMA PATHETIQUE: COURT M´ETRAGE
The only weighty human touch
I’ve had in the last six months
is from my reflexologist, his torch
hot fingers release toxins—
bad subfusc coloured Qi back
into thirsty downtown mouths.
Jump cut. No, I lied. The moxie
masseuse in the two stroke
hotel spa in Portugal. Take my tannins
to the curb, please. Pressed clutch
to speed away, fast. That bubble bloke
on the corner of Tavira and Lisboa
stepping on every dead uncouth
diabetic nerve-end. I lied, it was in Sinaloa
when I mistook Mexico for lunch—
mole con pollo, Zapatista cabins,
and corridas calientes. I also lied
about the metaphors—trope tricks
bought at the healer’s toll booth, now smooth
of meaning. No alternative to touch—
The only weighty human touch
I’ve had in the last six months
is from my reflexologist, his torch
hot fingers release toxins—
bad subfusc coloured Qi back
into thirsty downtown mouths.
Jump cut. No, I lied. The moxie
masseuse in the two stroke
hotel spa in Portugal. Take my tannins
to the curb, please. Pressed clutch
to speed away, fast. That bubble bloke
on the corner of Tavira and Lisboa
stepping on every dead uncouth
diabetic nerve-end. I lied, it was in Sinaloa
when I mistook Mexico for lunch—
mole con pollo, Zapatista cabins,
and corridas calientes. I also lied
about the metaphors—trope tricks
bought at the healer’s toll booth, now smooth
of meaning. No alternative to touch—
posted by carbonator at
Sunday, October 17, 2010
