David Young - poem


Skulldiggery

I.	
			
Yank out a man's brains, 
then his guts, and uncoil them on
the ground before him:
he won't be able to tell the difference

II.		

The rhythm of self-deception
circumscribes all apprehension;
the mind is in collusion
with its countless acts of delusion;
Consciousness is non-linear time's reduction
to a sufferable daily resurrection.	

"But you go too far sir!"
they will say,
making perfect
indignant examples 
of themselves.
		
III.

The City pervades the thoughtstream
with a delicate social strata,						
passion for the home team,
the politicos, deceptive demographic data.

Human moles in under-subway holes				
mix with rats that frighten cats
devour moldy, once-buttered rolls
and dream of lost lives as bureaucrats.

Amidst talk of stock incentive
a widow's unrelenting perfume
(effective as an exfoliative)						
quickly overpowers a boardroom.
	
Nervous new tenants observe drugs
sold on nearby street corners
by conspicuously lounging thugs
to frequent blood-donors.
		
A glaring fellow with a glass eye
rests a battered baby carriage
against his wife's ponderous thigh
slim before their teenage marriage.

As interludes of wine and cigarettes
pass beneath the restaurant's awning,
bored looks from passing coquettes
turn the waiter's eyes ravening.

And so on and so forth,
always there must be points of reference


IV.

Lucidity:
syncopated echo
that reverberates
as it anticipates,
vice of the
unequivocal moment,
need for the shuttling elevators
unexpected halt
and slow wipe-opening 
of its doors
upon some dim, receding hall
crammed with dusty marble forms
of cherubim, athletes and thinkers;
a glimpse of style amidst clutter

All the rest is 
dull thoughts between floors

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