By Daniel Paiz
Poetry, spoken word, rhyming: all of these various outlets are cathartic. 2020 is going to be a cathartic year because there’s going to be a lot of flushing of one’s internal systems, so to speak. With that being said, here is “My Remains”.
The cremulator slows down after finishing its ghastly task,
turns out I only require flakes and ghosts as fuel for all of that.
What’s a cremulator you ask?
It’s a blender for your bones,
which my mechanical blood pumper to me has shown.
But a heart is a muscle,
it can’t turn into dry skeletal remains?
That’s why my remains are something that isn’t the same.
Drained, stained, rained upon by different elements of
the learned lexicon of the opposite interest,
this transformation is odd without proper context.
Direct your attention not to the one writing
words both haunting and that soothe,
but rather why the alteration has happened in that one’s mood.
A long-winded way to actually really say,
something that you might’ve already gauged,
This penman keeps repeating the same mistakes
while fending off calls for a change of such insanity.
Leave the digital methods,
of connecting, lusting and not loving for what,
I know what baggage is and I still carry-on what I must,
I never check bags because I’ve learned how to pack,
that is until I run into one or two of you,
I need at least three backpacks.
I’m not judging your bathroom essentials or unmentionables, no,
I’m saying there’s room despite it being a twin bed sized hole next to snow.
I’m saying carry-out menus might be the way to go,
there’s no caviar and Avión when you start out at motels
possessing signs that barely glow.
But just know,
if you go,
you’re missing out on your turn to have a go,
At once again pressing the cremulator’s
color touch screen button,
to watch my remains disintegrate slow.