Thursday, May 12, 2016

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Fossil Fuel

Whatever they
had been drinking
on their pub
crawl to end all
pub crawls did
nothing to suppress
the acrid scents
of house fires,
days and nights
spent in dark
cellar pits wreathed
by yellow DO NOT
CROSS scene tapes,
drenched by high
pressure hoses,
a scent that lingers
in City Mission
reject clothes,
redefining scaled
and layered skin,
giving new meaning
to their near-dying
requests for high
octane fuels for
tanks stuck way
below empty

Zipperhead 2

Someone at
the Psyche
Center must have
decided there was
one too many
full Blue Moons
on his shift at
Security and said
the hell with
all this noise
letting anyone
ambulatory with
the will to travel
and see the world
at large
though it was
kind of sick
to burden sub-
normals and zip-
perheads with
folding money
for their drinks
of choice once
they got outside
Watching them
trying to connect
two severed hemi-
spheres of thought
and attempting to
order stuff  was almost
as painful as knowing
the shock treatment
that awaited  them
once they got
back inside

Green Haus

He had this
strange corona
of singed hair
and unnaturally
white skin instead
of hair, eyebrows
and a scalp,
a fringe that
seemed to be
gradually leeching
the skin from
his body, tapping
vital fluids, blanking
out the washed
away blue of his
unfocused eyes
as if his personal
ozone layer had
decayed leaving
him vulnerable,
naked, totally
exposed to the
fatal elements

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