Electric company, Humming to itself & Surprise
by Clayton A Couch
[ poetry - february 04 ]
Electric company
Laugh, getting breath from another mouth,
recharges what's in a battery, but juice.
Flash! A transformer just blew up down
the street, speaks in the buzz of summer.
Burst the assumption, a bubble of monologue:
"Comic, you're going under for surgery tonight."
Rude, the conversation stops at simpering
fascist, salute delivered in a midnight walk.
Chicken cars crash before life flashes
striders on water's surface, plucked under
by fish. What's lost is paradise. In reeds,
play 'em again or pretend it's immanent.
Humming to itself
Minimum brain waves goodbye.
Tease you with bright clouds.
In shorts, the air breathes fecund.
All lights correspond to go, green.
Cool slant, autumn eyes and moans
liquidity, and solid bodies kiss
ageless rings of conscious cool.
Therapy, just to pacify his children.
Wrist is blue, and the strain is an ache.
Black holes sing a deep bass
too profound for human ears,
with tongues connoting event horizon,
blather of godly action. Constrict
serpentine, you wring me and collapse
early morning bad breathing.
Surprise
Bad hearing with a bomb
around my neck ticking aid.
Be a rhythmical meter;
measure ages of the earth.
Voice comes only gradual,
as if it wasn't used to flesh.
Glasses fog a wet sidewalk,
horn warning at the cross.
They say today time stops,
and the school's safe locks.
