Sunday, 23 July 2017

A poem by Elosham Vog

Cold Night with Wild Turkey


He sipped at his second-rate malt, temple
bells ringing out across the dark graveyard.

This was it - but this couldn't be, not this
sad imitation of a life of love.

He turned to haiku, built stilted houses
to hold history safe above the flood

of tears and fear, not a single garden
plot free from budding plumeria trees.

The volcano grew. Pickled synapses
snapped the chains of classics - man grown arcane,

ancient flag out of reach on the moon like
pyramids built by aliens on earth.

He’d mistaken the electric toaster
for good fortune, x-rays for intelligence,

hairspray and surfboard resin for happiness -
misinterpretations of maladies

his new literature of modern love.








Elosham is a poet. These poems are taken from a verse novel project entitled Volcano. Other Volcano poems have appeared in a variety of journals, including Lighthouse, The Missing Slate, The Interpreter's House, and The Istanbul Review.


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