*2 poems

2 poems by Alex Matraxia (@alexmatraxia17) to make you.... think

Unrequited War

Love Song

 

Over the long talk

of the city

trying to howl

that love song

to a sensitive lunacy

a large empty space

seeping thru skyscrapers

tearing

the ground

 

of human noise

 

adolescent banks

below in

timidity

among

the broken

slant of light

over Waterloo

canopies, glooming over

piercing flats

in the morning

shaking the

industry of buses

like great lungs

 

– today I have nothing to do –

I go to the gallery

of watercolors & strangers

 

passing thru black & white

roses of the city –

the stain-glass skateparks

back-ally cathedrals

metropolis teenagers from

the gargoyle-stoners to

the middle class

green-sweater- types

Notting Hill nymphs

Camden lullabyers

Shoreditch cinefiles

Knightsbridge mannequins

egos huddled in

contemporary fashion

 

some young ache

 

the Southbank at 3am

silent

the city infants

cursing

 

against raging mothers

& the middle-aged man

sobbing over broken letters &

constipated dreams

 

their rage

the night-bruised

furniture

bodies eroding

in emotion

 

so I’ll wander out to a

conversational encounter

to a cafe of red tea

& smile & document the rituals of the days

unconscious intimates

trying to count the leaves

cracked like dry skin

unnaturally passing

weightless thru the streets

trodden on by feet

walking to perished wonderlands

of money & dead dreams

into unmet certainties &

 

tender breathing

that fragility like

lungs full of

broken glass

refracting a city

kaleidoscopically

 

tall alters glowing

shrieking bulbs on top

fate’s electrical lovers

clinging to ego ideals

falling down like

curtains of Christ over

the city

& buried in urban sleep

 

City infants –

names I’ll lose

your unnamed creatures

burning

breathing

in self-righteousness & individualism’s suicide

 

 

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Post Truth

When reading about

the Berlin Wall,

collapsing as

a souvenir,

I imagine

the students of all types

taking marbles from its eyes,

dropping them like fruit

into champagne

with strangers

 

today every party

at the start

of the century,

people cramming

themselves into

their own histories;

deep black eyes

flashing like angry

microwaves,

carbon copies of

pixels & blood,.

Who doesn't want

the enduring

recognition of being

what isn't everyday?

To make the

phenomena

of their wills

an ecstasy.

History isn't even ripped

by the struggling complainers.

 

I won't preach

the unmet climaxes

of newspaper

colonoscopies,

digital prophecies,

the Buzzfeed critique

of our conception.

I'm hopeless but

try to be as attentive

as insecurity allows.

 

Everything is

a kind of fake.

Even poems.

Even poems

about meaning

of frivolity.

I'd like to think

supermarket fridges

are full of

artichokes & semen.

I'd like to think

Walt Disney

painted the sky.

But who cares.

Crack open the

spines of the new

books, quietly damning.

Cockroaches made

of raindrops

falling.

The winds

are out of

locust.

 

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