Liberi Fatali

I walked into the hipster party

and found three or four hipsters

talking together in hiptalk.

I tried to be friendly but heard

myself talking to one in blacktalk.

“How are you?” one interrogated.

She bore an unmemorable

Protestant name.

She informed me that she'd been

working on a poem entitled

“Sonnets for Emmet Till”.

Having not heard

the poem ,I quickly recalled Till's disfigured corpse.

His right eye long unaccounted for,

floating somewhere at the belly of the

Tallatchie River.  His bloated face resembling

overcooked lasagna.

“Sounds neat” I replied

and I made my way to the porch.

There two queers were

discussing the inequities of

free market capitalism

while there cigarettes dangled.

I mentioned that the bulk of

the black middle class had been

eradicated during the recession

and they snapped back at me with

squalid faces. Wide eyed and consternated.

“I refuse to talk about race”

one of them dared in his asphyxiating jeans.

I pondered the remark, soon recanting 

my presence on the porch.

Inside, a “dance” party ensued.

An elevated macbook channeled

music devoid of soul into receptive ears.

The hipsters flailed their pallid limbs

to the constancy of repetitive electronic sounds.

Feeling inspired, I pulled out my penis,

The root of everyone's nueroses,

And at once ejaculated my unconscious mind

Decorating the entire room in a beautiful

nymphomaniacal blast.

Reviews

[_mal]

This is amazing, the way you describe things and how it all slips out and builds such a clear feeling of being in someone else's head