Darryl Salach resides in Mississauga, Ontario. He is the creator and chief editor of The Toronto Quarterly. His poetry has been published in many literary journals and online zines such as The Starfish Journal, Lummox Journal, Neonbeam Magazine, Battered Suitcase, The Rattlesnake Review, Heroin Love Songs, Zygote in my Coffee, Misunderstandings Magazine, and the forthcoming issue of The New York Quarterly.
NO TITS, ONLY JARGON AND AN EMPTY PALE
spin the bottle
closed eyes quiver
the desolate waiting area
the aroma with iodine
bumble bees buzzing
an inarticulate man strides to
asking the assistant to dim
there are shadows
on a graffiti-stained wall
and a cocker spaniel
eats lunch with the decaying
another homicide in the east end
a poke and then silence
bombastic muscle reflex
the extraction of spinal fluid
is now complete.
Many voices sleep in plastered walls -
the enigma - the sadness lines the concealed hardwood floors
a phone call, laughter strikes
murmurs from the bathroom, and then the kitchen pots
and pans are stainless yet echoing consignment -
the maiden voyage has struck ice cubes and a bottle.
Heart-attack and the marbles scramble for daylight
another awkward instance and the canopy bed is empty
fortunes are lost – foreign tongues are glued to counteract
the enforcement of micro-managed forfeiture -
a bathroom sink is grime-stricken, toilets gurgle with suspense -
deodorized cathedrals with angry parishioners liquidate assets.
Dark-glasses, southern comfort and the diatribe who litter your fuchsia-coloured cheeks with smitten-soaked kisses of condolence,
soliciting parades of comedic mourners who isolate the community campgrounds - bonfires are set ablaze to abstract the pending
full moon as it’s willingness to absorb your pain is neutralized -
a gravestone will honour his lackluster existence silently.
The widow will atone her body structure and tantalize men
with abrupt moments of secular appointments in the round,
sweat-soaked linen, a monumental hang-over satisfy her
and her significant other – paralleled unconsciousness, aggrieved-
the asphyxiated momentary silence – and an awakening scream
torches the darkness of the unsophisticated room – she is alive.
MODERN DAY TELEVISION
death – of the 6 o’clock tea party
astronauts, cigars, and scotch -
reality has been deemed
in today’s world
of fraudulent portrayals of freedom
vote me an idol
a song and then happiness
séances on prime time
we greet the air-brush
with applause and data – ratings
all senseless and appease no one.
in high definition
we watch the butchery
the neighbourhood is peppered with gunshots and flame
a video game
in the making
and in the directors chair
with popcorn between our legs
sit you and I
numbed by very little surprise.