Pulverized
There is a taste in the back of my throat.
Consonants and vowels mixed up like gravel and cement.
Reaching for something I may not obtain in this lifetime.
We spit.
We ejaculate.
We lactate.
There is this uproar in the front of my brainpan.
Beats and bops flowing through my blood like melted silver.
Advancing toward something I may never attain outside this dead zone.
We succumb.
We perish.
We rise from the ashes pulverized and out of breath.
Artwork © TJ Edson
Charles Cicirella currently resides in Cleveland, Ohio. His poetry has recently appeared in Terminal Books Poetry & Prose: Volume 1, Red Fez and Thirteen Myna Birds. In addition to poetry, he has written for bobdylan.com in the Bob Dylan 101 section. He also does a radio show he posts online called Radio Ether.
TJ Edson is the Art Director of Oddball Magazine and a volunteer at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery. He has also had work appear recently in Terrarium.
Great, love the way the words flow leaving a bitter taste in the mouth