“webs of milk” by Jonathan Dick

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “webs of milk” by Jonathan Dick.  Dick is from Toronto, Canada. He has had over thirty poems published in various literary journals. Follow him on Twitter: @jjdickyboy.

webs of milk

Jonathan Dick 

i watch as incandescent diplomats respectfully dance, upon the bones

of my descendant’s graves, as they meander their lonely ways

through army pilot dictionaries, which contain many languages,

but arabic is not one of them. as they tear down borders

sensed before the midnight, boy rockets across the figment’s 

sky, as they punch open bank vaults and vacuum the remnants, 

of pornographic images - they smelled like fermented fig beer.

as they penetrate girls, girls, and womenfolk who do not know

when the next nobel prize will be hoisted their way, or if their libido

will run dry at the party, like a stream requesting its own death. 

as they plunge deeper into the forever-ending songs, of pocahontas

laying awake at night, into the dreams where their saliva tic-tac-toes

down their pointed chins. as they flex their teeth towards the ground

and bare their arms which bite, down on the ruinations of a blank ups. 

as they reach into desert holes, with lonely minds finding

psychedelic horns growing, out of their messy beards.

as they forget and mourn the losses, of american foreign

nationals who stared angels in the face, and spat out puddles

of malice and destruction. as they silently defecate

upon the nobility of new york and upper broadway.

as they play seven-up with death, hop scotching down

hallucinations of wild, intensive madness in the zoos

which hold animals without their mothers’ approvals. 

as they spun webs of milk, splattered with facts

and mice because who can really tell, the difference

between the two? 

as they prayed longingly for drunken, homeless sex

in the alleys of jarvis Street, extending towards the high

god of dung. 

as they twirled down a nonsensical hell, where

robin hood was a woman, whose beard reached 

towards her tails and cowbell boys, sinking lower

under the depths and pressures of negative

spiritualism. 

i watch tonight the television and slap

myself in the face for having the audacity

to establish a civilization made out of pangs. 

i watch without hunger-cartoons, or mexican drugs

coursing through the red rivers of man 

which form my awkwardly gargantuan body.

i watch tonight sitting like a noise in my bed, waiting

for the incandescent diplomats’ next salvation, 

waiting for their glorified and silent dust 

to settle upon my naked and empty grave.

Poet’s Notes:  I originally wrote this when I was sixteen years old. The poem encapsulates my frustration with the inefficiencies of government, the mediocrity of teenage life, and the hypocrisy we are spoon-fed by all sorts of people.