Miss Asphyxia (trypanophobic34) wrote in poet_society,
Miss Asphyxia
trypanophobic34
poet_society

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Ballad of West Sing Sing

There’s a melody running through your valleys
Crawling over pastel hills and seeping
Into your suburbs, spotted with unused keys
While we here are silently teething.

You have the whole sky, to cup, above you
We have a lazily drifting square of light
Pale and weak like the pool of anemic faces
The young ones snap jaws and lacerate and fight
We shudder in our skins, newly washed bright and clean
And sing-whisper, “Oh, Ah-les, it doesn’t matter what you do
I know I’ll never really get inside of you”
Because when I pulled her moony skin over me
The eyeholes were suffocating, tight, and I felt lost
Burrowing like a beaten child-dog, hiding myself behind,
Inside what was not.

Your chipped picket fence – your wilting flowerbeds
Your penny loafers – the morning newspaper
That arrives, mysteriously, every day while you sleep
To reassure you that as you dreamt, the world was yet turning
Your best dark suit – your home-cooked meals
Your Janie and Jack and their Sunday school
At home, you watch girls on the tennis courts
Discreetly titillated by the grunt and white rise of skirt
As they stretch upwards, hopeful, and arch their young backs against the sun
And afterwards, but afterwards, abashed and vaguely saddened
Your modest dreams, the hoarding of all the things
You’ve spent your free life accumulating
Pretty little house and Labrador and microwave
The wife that smiles, the children that behave
The mind that dulls and becomes staid with age
No longer sharp, no longer vivid, no acrid, vital taste left on the tongue
Loathing it all, the inescapable pleasant dream
Yes, I see you, but do you know what it means?

If you count back to the past
When I was the yellow-haired boy
And still sucked on my thumb and clutched at Mother’s skirts
And often put my face down into the ground
Convinced that, if I did, my heart, stifled, would stop beating
And stop tormenting me with its erratic rhythm,
Masturbating, aspiring to some unnamed element
Leaving me feverish and dizzy
You’ll feel light-headed and see I could have been your child
And with a white hand, carefully, carefully, dreading,
Shake open the paper bringing old news, heralding the modern
Make a great show of saying
“Oh, those sick fucks
Absolutely disgusting”
Put that thing up on a pedestal as a thing of horror and repulsion
Abominable, grotesque, to be reviled and shocking
But you’re feeling the stir, the little puh-pump, this heart
You’re feeding the mentality that simmers and shivers
Licks and bites the fingers
I’m a small part of the piece, just your soiled front page
Hissing and spitting at the walls they’ve conjured around me
Hatred siphoning the blue from my eyes
The hypocrite in me coveting the things I see you having so casually.

You’ll come out of your box when the alarm clock hammers your head
I’ll never leave these six surfaces, never truly get out of bed
I’ll lie in a small, dark room with these hands
Still wrapped safely in Alice’s polished, lusty skin
I’d peel it off, if I could, but since I put it on
I’ve found I can’t really take it off, so then
I’ll lie here, quiet, not angry, still consumed with her end
Singing a song of Sing Sing, with all the rest
The sounds will carry over your valleys
And nestle, at home, inside your head.

West Sing Sing = infamous West Block of Sing Sing "Correctional Facility"

Based on A. M. Homes' The End of Alice.

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