menu Menu
There Was Histrionic Laughter at the Clowns Cadaver
An Extraordinary Poem Collection 
By N. Alexander Sidirov Posted in Non-fiction 3 min read
Dark Matter Transit: Book One Previous Ultimate Personal Job Search Guide Next

HYPER(IMPER)EALITY

America is the land of cults

and cult leaders,

of hyperbole and death

by truth in fiction.

When I was nine years old I gas lit myself

with a careless swing of wool

on an elderly breathing stove

When I was eleven years old I gas lit myself

again

ignoring every sign that Santa Claus did not exist

because I wanted to believe in magic.

My sister and I took a Ouija board

from downstairs

and we asked that sacred question,

Is he real?

The planchette pushed itself to yes,

I think about this sometimes,

Was it a friendly ghost?

or the gentle force of desire permeating

both of our young minds.

That Christmas we stared at the stars

from the ear of the eye of our home

and saw a satellite

but believed it could be a saint

floating through the night.

It was not until I told my mother

and she laughed at us

that I realized

it had been a lie all along.

A cruel collective joke.

I empathize to some degree now,

with the have-nots who choose to believe in magic

in the form of their cult leader, who

shares nothing with humanity

in our propensity for error.

I know,

that the lie can continue

for as long as you choose

to avoid

staring at the teeth

of the beast.

But, sometimes its best to look the shark in the mouth

in order to avoid the bites.

I suppose only time will tell

if this is how we will bleed out and die.

The Boy is Buffering

It was a Sunday evening.
The temperature high in the hundreds.
The repairman’s chain dangled
like a rosary might on the dashboard
of someone who feared both the wrath of god
and the idea of the devil.

“Hell I haven’t seen something this glitchy, in quite a frisky minute.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Not sure but I think I can try”

He smacked the top of the boy’s head
no light appeared behind the twin screens.

“We already tried that”

“Well here’s your problem” He gestured to the three toothed tail. “Always,
make sure its plugged into its sense of purpose. Artificial is fine makes no difference”

*Powers on*

*Channel 1*

I wander in the desert.
Guided only by a precious stone in the sky.
Its monsoon season but it has been raining dust for days.
I don’t have any conventional sense of purpose
perhaps because I think too much about it.
I also lack an internal compass.

It makes me think that maybe my ability to easily get lost

is connected to the frequent feeling I am plagued with
of
being
lost.
I don’t really know how or why I got here.
I have tried on a lot of
belief systems, moral foundations, studied ontology in the hopes that some
chapter somewhere in a book I have not yet read

will elucidate that heavy question

that looms over me

casting a shadow on all that I do,

like a cumulonimbus cloud

with a god complex.

them

. . .


Read The Entire Book

lgbt memoir poetry


Previous Next

keyboard_arrow_up