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American Song (POEM)

Joshua Kight 6 years ago

American Song

Butter runs from the sun on to the hills.

You swam in an aluminum river

With sugar running in the gutters

And sponge cake behind the shutters

Of brick homes full of American dreaming.

The Hobby horses are hair triggered

For the derby run to the cube farms

Where it all goes to be extinguished.

Do Not Disturb:

There are sleeping canines

Dressed to the nines

Who will press the panic button

And release the furies.

So, Use your quiet shoes

Rely on your best ruse

And leave it all to Lady Luck.

You heard symphonies in the rafters

At the funeral of the ‘ever-afters’

The horn section

played in a key only heard by rabbits.

They sing along like a room

Full of penny whistles.


There are sharks

Under the floors

And reptiles behind doors

The peace you sought

Lies slaughtered on the moors.

Your story scratches at the window.

His coat is mildewed from the rain.

He erupts from your forehead

Leaving bone fragments in the dirt.

You pour honey on it

to relieve the bitterness.

You have lost the fields of feeling

You crossed the room reeling

From peppercorn words

That hang on the wall

By the fine print

Beneath the eye of Horus.

Do Not Cross:

The red line with its ravenous

Appetite for meat.

Don’t go past the seven thousand revolutions

That destroy worlds.

But You can skate till dawn

Over the last ice of spring.

The re-invention of the Daemon takes time

It can only be witnessed

Inside your temple.

You can supplicate all you want

But the idol won’t speak.

Your generation has no words

For real love that grows forests

Or real lust that hollows valleys

Or sudden flashes of insight

That pop and rattle

Like an old oil furnace

On a winter morning.


For you: It is forbidden

To do the bidding of

‘Poets who died young outlived by the body’

Who produce bad seeds

rotting in to moist gel

That never had a chance.

The world goes to the bluffers

With their hands spilling ashes

In to the double-occupancy coffins.

Highways carrying fates

Pass over American states

Along a nervous system

That transmogrifies terror

in to parcels

of eight hour excretions.

Cars move like marbles in grooves

Releasing pinworms in to patriotic ponds

Making the whole fat monster

Roll over and groan

A homunculus grotesque

In a kingdom of burlesque

That says good night

Before hiding his light

under a blanket.


by Joshua Kight 5/17/18

(The video for this poem publishes on ArtProfiler on Thursday, September 6.)

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