Mr. Percodan

Light is the anomie of poetry
Mr. Percodan, please let me be you
breed from me your steely fingers
crystals of a blighted blue

When the pale dead sight of day is gone
your pale dead voice lingers on
stretched softly through a pillowcase
of sweat, eggshell and yawning dregs

Lace squeezed through most suitable hands
dull is the mist at masquerade ball
the metal detector grunts and scrapes,
as I bolt through the lens of your shiny floor

Now the lifeless branch droops
fantasizes megaskin
between the stumps, between the root
life betrays its sleepy self
the quaint bouquet meant for someone else

Saturated, I break my fall
this toxic lock so faint, so kind
triage for two on sunburnt sand
Mr. Perco D, I bow to your call



David H. Katz is an artist, photographer and writer based in New York City. His writings on art, politics, entertainment, and conditions humane and inhumane have appeared in High Times, TANK, The Village Voice, Jewish Quarterly, The Villager, The East Village Eye, and elsewhere. He lives in Chinatown, under the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge.

Comments are closed.