allison floyd
allison flloyd lives in the bay area, where she writes and
performs poetry. previous print publication credits include frisson,
comfusion, and the iconoclast, online at rogue worlds, decompositions,
and 3 a.m.stigmatalite@hotmail.com
Suicide Theater
she's a landmine.
I tripped on her,
she exploded.
It's not her fault.
It's what landmines do.
I blame my shoes.
She, my acetylene rag doll,
luminous, incandescent,
burning brilliant pyres
across wrists
prostrated like timber.
She doesn't commit suicide,
she commits theater.
And she always breaks
at least a leg.
Lately, I,ve Fallen in Love
Lately, I've fallen in love
with gutted fisheyes.
W/the steaming gleaming
innards of fresh road kill.
W/the poetry of scalpels and hooks.
Lately, I've fallen in love
with the explicit.
Lately, I've fallen in love
with that which defies description.
W/that which assaults the senses
so brutally
they're compelled to file a report
but left completely speechless.
Because the world is too full
of poets bemoaning
the futility of words
the way eighty-year old men
mourn the loss of other
creative faculties.
The world is too full
of timid switchblades
whose wielders refuse to slash
the ropes that bind their hands
behind their backs.
The world is too full
of concessions to silence.
Lately, I've fallen in love
with riots.
Lately, I've fallen in love
with bomb threats"
especially those that deliver.
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