tonight, only one toilet clogged.
unlike those other nights –
halls full of choked bowls, underground, flooded, knee deep in –

I’m naked, 
like those other times,
tar like leeches peeled from back of thigh,
bad stuff sliding from anus.
at least no one is watching me. There’s no shaming. 

where are the sewer tides?

in subterranea: orange lichen rocks, gasping creatures,
land of the dead, dry.

I’m used to the gurgling.
not this
small
stupid
stream,
trickling.

Great Acheron, now a weakling.

street level / brutal sun
(clothed or not, I don’t know.)
shophouses silent, no cars on the road.
where are the hipsters?
topsy turvy tea sets
signs of turbulence
population: zero.

phone is dying.

“alright, wifey, where are you?”
she’s a thin, floating voice, eroded by light years.
a pre—recording.
I think she’s dead. floating in space.
she’s making dinner plans.
(were my responses recorded?)
Would I know my own voice?
under more stable conditions, we’ll be having sushi.
a video of us, dining.

love film ruined / decayed

It’s the right place but wrong week to find her.
black lace billowing in empty stores. a gothic absence, wires dangling from ceilings, powerless.

phone losing signal
“honey, where are you?”
stumbling down narrow staircase to monochromatic main street.

There’s heavy rain and tarmac, seen through white noise and static.
“the sound of storms can be so beautiful…”
I think she’s laughing.
It’s getting harder and harder to hear her.

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day19‬ ‪#‎noprompt‬

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s