A Sepulchral Smell Lingers | Sy Roth
The coverlets are warm this morn.
Force of existence unwraps itself in doleful silence.
Feet expected to hit the floor,
to goosestep to the drum roll of faux time.
For a moment dream of beaches
swaddled in the warm sands
like baby turtles, try to make it back to the sea.
The alternative?
As long as the morning sun decides to rise--
sleep all day?
Wrap yourselves in coverlets
and detect a shrinking sun
on the back of your neck?
In the background, blinking lights,
fade-ins and fade-outs animate the rods and cones.
Heads read.
Monotonous monitors, a battology of our day’s stories --
galoshes day,
Assad reaches the hundred thousand mark,
a parade of drownings, fathers running over their daughters,
limbs replaced by running blades,
a Mother’s Day parade celebrated with a ten-gun salute.
Behind Chicklet teeth,
tongues clack interminably, while
masses mash sugared cereal into their mouths.
The world gyres and gambols along to its four-part harmonies.
Politicians melt the wax from ancient, secret missives.
Nothing changes in this tango of daily ill-repute.
No tomorrows,
only peaceful nows,
sheltered in houses full of secrets,
coated in fresh, white paint.
A sepulchral smell lingers in the air.
The coverlets are warm this morn.
Force of existence unwraps itself in doleful silence.
Feet expected to hit the floor,
to goosestep to the drum roll of faux time.
For a moment dream of beaches
swaddled in the warm sands
like baby turtles, try to make it back to the sea.
The alternative?
As long as the morning sun decides to rise--
sleep all day?
Wrap yourselves in coverlets
and detect a shrinking sun
on the back of your neck?
In the background, blinking lights,
fade-ins and fade-outs animate the rods and cones.
Heads read.
Monotonous monitors, a battology of our day’s stories --
galoshes day,
Assad reaches the hundred thousand mark,
a parade of drownings, fathers running over their daughters,
limbs replaced by running blades,
a Mother’s Day parade celebrated with a ten-gun salute.
Behind Chicklet teeth,
tongues clack interminably, while
masses mash sugared cereal into their mouths.
The world gyres and gambols along to its four-part harmonies.
Politicians melt the wax from ancient, secret missives.
Nothing changes in this tango of daily ill-repute.
No tomorrows,
only peaceful nows,
sheltered in houses full of secrets,
coated in fresh, white paint.
A sepulchral smell lingers in the air.