Cold Season


That vibration has come again
if I were a car
a driver might say
there’s an issue with the spark
or with the compression
because judging
from the size of my tank
there’s plenty of fuel

I’m suffering from disjointed dreams
pillows slicked with drool
jerking awake every few hours to pee
like I’d had a marathon boozer
but all I had was water
so plain as to make me thirsty
water hardly able to cut
the heavy phlegm in my throat

these are my symptoms
I take it outside
try to give my throbbing nostrils
some open-air exercise
walk the bike-throttled streets
maniacs throwing up thin
sheets of gutter water
while trees drip
onto sentinel pumpkins
disfigured on every doorstep

my joints have all taken offense
led by the sesamoid
setting-off my right big toe
every step a prelude to a revolution
now my knee now my hip
distracted stepping into a puddle
and wouldn’t you know
the resulting chill is not a balm

huddled at home
suffering the secondary fever
of broadcast television
all fat and sugar with no texture
like eating whipped butter
unsalted and prone to melt
leaving nothing but ache upstairs
and guilt below

eyes have ignited
probing the abundance of nothing
for a thin sense of sedation
but there’s not even sedition
my sinuses are stuffed
with unwashed cotton
and my bed cold cobblestones
echoing each shift I make
with a skeletal creak

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GlenDodge

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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