Monday, December 8, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems


Vulcan Mind Probe

Maybe he thought
he was some kind
of David Byrne
clone dressed in
ill-fitting, mis-
matched clothes,
too large shoes,
voice box cranked,
speaking in some
high speed variation
of all the tongues
of Babel endlessly
tested and repeated
in some unknown,
alphabetical order
as if he had
been subjected to
some kind of
horrible reverse
brain washing
experimentation,
negative and positive
poles reversed or maybe
he was just the subject
of some bad practical
joke gone bad warping
into some new hyper- 
space where the Top
40 Hits were earth
classics like Burning
Down the House
translated into Klingon
and made vocal at warp
speeds no human
neurons could accept
or process, whatever
it was afflicting him,
death was going to
be a blessing compared
to what he was
experiencing now.



Vulcan Mind Probe 2

He looked like
Rasputin after he
had been shot
several times,
poisoned and fished
out of a frozen
river, his long
scraggly beard
and below the
shoulders hair
knotted and
encrusted with all
manner of dirt,
refuse and matted
leaves, his clothes
a fabric not worn
by most men some-
thing like burlap
cut to size and
stained a weird
off color not unlike
the scent that
emanated from him,
a foul odor of human
waste, rotted garbage
and death, his glazed
eyes embers from
a camp fire beyond
caring, warmth in
tent on obtaining
-Drink!-, rumpled
funny money clutched
in his outstretched
fist, his voice a
distant, feral calling
out from Siberian
steppes, frozen wastes
no man can survive in.



Vulcan Mind Probe 3

She looked as
if she'd spent
her formative
years as a bare
backed rider of
pale horses
whipped to
a lathering
frenzy those
full moon
nights of demon
lovers, banshee
wails & ghost
coyote songs,
tone poems for
a restive soul
in perpetual wet
heat, summer
storms never
far from her
gloss tainted
lips, blue
shaded eyes,
hooded, barely
contained pale
tints of prairie
fires

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