I see a silver blue-eyed flea riding on a bicycle of dust a birthday balloon and the long face of death
he has a hooded blacked-out face red daffodil fangs and whistles the names of the chosen ones.
On the counter different coloured truths I spy the nose of a gun but can’t be sure
my eyes half closed under a cloud and yellow fog cocoons me
as I step back: all around the voices of anger dicing for life
and the right to be seen to be heard a million and three stories
trapped in Chimera’s rotting stomach. The light is smothered by the fat thumb of depression
yesterday’s tiny square of sun shredded and scattered over a stale afternoon.
There is nothing in-between no toothy smile just those who sit in the nostril of self-satisfaction
and there it is on an illuminated sign: More Fall Prey to Debticide.
The questions are etched on my hand the answers spread on the dinner table
easy cook microwaved baby sick a bottle of mineral water
and a mouldering half-eaten hamburger a police of flies circle crawl defecate
on the cindered hump of meat. This is the golden head of my reality
a five hundred and fifty-two percent increase on a snake loan to save the family home.
I watched the pin-striped laughter of the jet-skiing bully boys drink up my mother’s blood
and I remain restless in a one-stop roach motel while they sleep like suckling kittens under the belly of a black night.
Acclaimed poet, novelist, song lyricist and creator of sonic scatterscript, Saira Viola has been widely published here, there and on the bathroom walls in Vegas. Her novel Jukebox is available on Fahrenheit Press, and her published poetry includes the collections Don’t Shoot the Messenger (Underground Books), Flowers of War (Underground Books), Rebel Mini, and Fast Food and Gin on The Lawn (Feed a Read). Of her work, Heathcote Williams (RIP) has said, “Saira Viola’s devised some new designer drug that keeps you reading… powerfully hypnotic language.”