Trapped, Trapped in a Peanut Coffin

Reduced to pitiable panting in a coffin filled
with peanut-flavored death. The callow heart
too fragile to fathom a solution, with the gay
ghosts of others jeering.

Savoring some stale
slices of hope while already doomed, with the
vision blinking to every call of a cruel divine monster.

Watching then a few spiritual scenes
for a foretaste of afterlife.

Feeling too cold, and a bit perturbed
with a beautiful wife praying on young knees.
Trying to swear in a language not resembling the
mother tongue but that of a faraway father’s habit.

Failing again after a few punches at the ceiling
that rebels and coaxes numbness
into my fists full of stinking fingers
as good as dry ladyfingers without balls.

Being laughed at by the
decayed mouths of old, well-dressed ghosts
with intentions redder than lethal scarlet ants.

Waking up again to have another go at the ceiling
which is missing. Starting to
swear heroically, searching for the ceiling that
has shifted into someone else’s temporary territory.

Aggravating the situation by releasing
from the pocket a handful of cherished,
fragrant and mild mementoes onto the ground,

with them rolling everywhere,
chased by the slick legs of a paralyzed panther.

Amit Parmessur, for someone who hated poetry, has been accepted for the past six months by over 65 magazines, including Ann Arbor Review, Burnt Bridge, Calliope Nerve, Catapult to Mars, Clockwise Cat, Clutching at Straws, Damazine, Gloom Cupboard, Heavy Hands Ink, LITSNACK, Mad Swirl, Red Fez, The Literary Burlesque, Shot Glass Journal and The Scrambler. As long as he gets published he knows that he is going in the right direction.

Find more by Amit Parmessur in the Author Index.

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