Matthew Abuelo | + Follow Poet |
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Disposable heroes
The modern virus
and the remorseless eye of the camera
have become the dancers
and the stage
of the mad theatre that hides 
behind our fears.
Did I say theatres?
I meant the Potter’s Field’s secret winters
where serial numbers
 instead of head stones
fall like silent snow
and comes with the sensation
of shock treatment to the genitals.
And the dancers?
They still dry hump all their steps
With high heel shoes
which sharpen all their skills,
in losing well,
to a fine point,
more lethal than the love
of the holy and rotting corpse.
At the end of a chain
He (the holy corpse)
comes to us in the sick mornings
at the price of curdled flesh which shrinks back
from the doctor’s prick
meant to keep you straight 
but only leads back to panic attacks that comes
with the thought of wasted time
or
of a fool’s dance that robs us of romance.
Now the only thing left is television and pills
Your gas stove
The taste of the third rail
Or
 taking a swan dive from the GW
Into the Hudson.
Its up to you
What face of escape you will wear
To the party.
But it beats a life sentence of boredom
Or the frantic phone call 
By a friend
Who hasn’t kept it straight 
Since the days he when wore long hair
But now cracks
At the thought of the landlord’s mercenaries 
From some far-off land 
And dances in roach skin suits and laughs
With a dull killer’s sneer.

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