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Quinn K. Poem
S omethign
so OHspomething
wa
somethign has gone wrong.
wrong horribly
wrong. er
ong.
yet l
leif li
will
lf
will relentlessy
go
on
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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Quinn K. Poem
The sound of a piano playing a dirge lies in the air. It was the day before general quarantine measures were implemented by the Austrian government. That same night, for the first time in recent memory, Vienna's stars were visible.
The enemy is invisible.
The following day, law took on a martial shape. It would not reach the 14th district just yet; in the morning people still walked into the mom n pop shop, opened; by nighttime, they yelled at each other from their yards. I ordered medicine.
I am healthy yet.
Nothing much is happening. Normalcy is inaction. Tyrol is blamed for wanting money. Everyone always does.
I am calmer than previously.
A dying fly in the stairwell today. Feels like there are fewer insects in the air. I have not gone out today. Wrote a poem, broke a heart, tried to mend it.
I spread my love wide, yet thin.
90 percent of people believe in the quarantine, a known about which nonbelief shouldn't exist, but does. The infection rate has worsened from a 200% increase per 3 to a mere 2,8 days. 10% will infect 20%, of which the vulnerable will perish. The radio says: "Stay inside and stay healthy."
I am very scared.
Called the disease info hotline. I am not at risk. Those older than myself around me, however, are. This too will pass. This, too, will be past, a dead disease.
Or it will become a new fact of life.
Grocery shopping done, I wait for my paramours. Desperately aching for human touch in its deepest, loveliest form. Many seem to feel that way. The same night, a young man hobbles down the road, unaware of his surroundings.
The world feels cursed.
Mayors insult their disobedient subjects with good reason. We are young, but even during a plague, not invincible. Solidarity, threefold among young, middle-aged and old is desired, but who knows how bad the cabin-fevered squabbling will get.
My father's sister, Christine, is sick.
INTERLUDE
Earlier than usual, the sun has gone down. The billboards' thousand yard stare looks into dead streets; flags are jerked to and fro atop their poles. Mankind must change its life.
Head empty, life empty, apartment full of tat. I love everyone who is a part of my life.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Today, for the first time in years, I have not set foot out into the open; used to be due to dysphoria, now the reasons are worse. I worry, but aunt Christine seems to be recovering. Copper pigs calling themselves "nerdy" get drunk on their new emergency powers.
Inexorably, nauseatingly, from hundreds of racing police cars, "I am from Austria" blares.
My projects are beginning to leave a mark on me. I have finished one. The United States has finally implemented measures, strolling in a race against time.
I know at least 4 people infected,and don't know if that is a lot.
A loved one told me they felt they were dying. My resolve has a chip in it, like my tooth. My next project is complete and is merely awaiting more art.
I can only cry tears of inertia.
INTERLUDE
Like wished upon the stars and stripes time and time again, death has come to America, the country leading the world with its infection/mortality rate. A Greek choir would sing of hubris - secretly knowing it plain, unfiltered, disgustingly misanthropic incompetence.
My family has abandoned me. I have abandoned hope.
I am finishing this early, for the sake of my mental health.
Quinn K-
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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Quinn K. Poem
My foot falls onto floorboards
Footfalls on the floor of my new home.
In its largest chamber, I settle down
Setting up bedding of twigs and downy feathers
Of lint from cozy woolen sweaters,
Sitting down.
A debt, to be repaid later
Lay in wake for me elsewhere,
I feel its breath in my head,
sucking in air, for my skull to implode, it spoke:
"You've got, you've got,
nothing, you've got, you've got,
to settle up."
Instead, I avoid its vacuum
And find my skin change to the tone of the piece,
Eyes crossed, I melt into the walls of its chambers,
softly beating fast
quickly, ah,
at last.
I lose myself in others' hearts,
For I change my patterns
to their matters,
my brain directed elsewhere,
an arrow of love, of cupid,
stupid.
I can't find my hands no more,
I can't see my reflection,
only dots where my eyes were.
blinking into minus signs,
a toll, a debit,
bit by bit,
I disappear.
I am a concept of I.
I am chameleon.
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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Quinn K. Poem
Uh, ahum, mmh, erh, yes
I suppose that
More or less,
I want,
(if such is fine with you)
You, my love,
To kiss me.
Hard.
Careful first,
Slowly, now,
Reckless later
breathless,
All enveloping
Dizzying, wow
A rush to my heart,
A crush on my tongue like a ball of bubblegum
What I want, I cannot confess
It feels too good to say,
All I can manage is
"god, I'm dazed"
And lay gentle hands on you,
Waive away my doubt
And caress
More, or less,
All of you,
So - more.
More is what I want,
I want us sore
In the best possible ways.
I've loved you the most
In the fewest days.
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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Quinn K. Poem
Laughed at a cartoon dog killing cartoon rabbit. Smothering it.
Called it "morbid humour".
Dark.
Deep.
A hole without visible bottom that you smile at, knowing if you just set one foot forward, you'd be swallowed.
Knowing,
Death has been insatiable lately.
Has humanity in a bear's embrace we shall all face, and most of us will live,
but some of us will fall to the tune of the jingling in an unjust few's purses.
Of the projected profits left behind by workless corpses.
Has gripped the vulnerable by the throat and cast them aside, on a pile of miserable, ended lives stacking further and further upwards,
but never reaching the soles of our oppressors' shoes to sully them.
Our wheezing is money. Our commodity has expired.
Our money is percentages rising and falling, multiplying the lot and dividing the few.
For tis the law of the land: Its lords are fruitless, fruit trees we water till they have drunk themselves dead, and us thirsty.
An old joke, all that. But I am of bad humour. Of sad humour.
And if we don't cast the first stone at those who sin against us,
We may as well have lost.
Our bodies in bags, our lives in pieces,
Our living kin at borrowed hearths, without us.
We will have decency and compassion,
in these times, so recently ashen.
Our cinders will rain down,
like viral spawn,
like germs.
We, the
many:
listen
to
our
terms.
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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Quinn K. Poem
Geraldine and Lampert, frogs
Rendez-vous'd at dawn, in swamp
Bathing in the warming current
They concur: We must tell stories!
To themselves: ("I'll make one up!")
Geraldine found first a bonmot:
"Last rehearsal, my dear Lampert
Scaled in volume, fortissimo!,
I achieved the height of croaking:
My tone high, my voice sonorous!
I completely aced the chorus
Of the Frog and Pauper, yessir!"
Lampert, all impressed throughout,
(though they sensed some shade of doubt)
Soon had found an anecdote:
"In the farthest parts of pond,
Past the sunken children's ships,
I once came upon cicadas,
And I tell you:
They're THIS big!"
Geraldine laughed ribbitly,
Chiefly, at that Lampert's bragging.
They were having grand a time,
In the morning mire, at dawn!
A mosquito soon flew by,
Caught by both, their tongues collided,
And they blushed and, mortified,
Sighed apologies, with smiles.
Past veneers of insincerity
It was both their clamped desire:
They wanted each to be
the other's froggy valentine.
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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Quinn K. Poem
The flowers of winter wither wildly
Petals drooping, dropping, falling down
down
down.
I pluck these rotting flowers from her ear
Her hair is stems, as are her veins
I smell the scents. Perfume.
Her boots are strewn over the antechamber
Slowly growing mold.
Despite my pleas, she
Would cut the flowers down, always
But they just keep coming, blooming
And wilting
The moon casts us in a strange glow
The white petals shine, shimmer
My room will be covered in her soon
If I am not careful
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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Quinn K. Poem
I cannot save
I cannot save the world
I cannot,
I cannot save environments
I can not save, here
and recover my progress
whilst the world has regressed,
I can't be safe here.
///
But I want my loves to be.
///
I cannot safeguard
My happy people, my chosen family
I cannot extend a net below their feet,
only a rope to tread on, above an abyss, inciting stumbling.
I cannot be social, lest I lose safety
So unseen, they may disappear.
///
I cannot save money.
And money is not safe.
I cannot give money,
to those i love the best.
///
I cannot do so much,
So I'll just have
to do
or give
the rest.
Copyright © Quinn K. | Year Posted 2020
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