another bad photograph

He had a Sacred Heart of Jesus
tattooed on his right arm          slipping out
sometimes          from underneath torn white shirt
that read “dead inside”

remembering images from some forgotten movie
crimson hand prints on whitewashed walls
and he sat         just waiting for the world to fold into itself
viewing the sinister pop art display in the bathroom mirror
shedding helpless ink through the darkness
onto some unhip Kerouacian insomniac’s
coffee stained napkin

blinded by café light
writing on the window from hot coffee steam
wash the wounds            follow the scar
a sudden quick conscious displacement
like a Nancy Drew flashback
shifting concrete
and he’s caught in a caffeinated nerve crash
like a surreal painting sliding through the streets

he trips            with a little twist down some drunken alleyway
in a late night gutter frenzy
viewing death like a drug addict           erotic intensity
visionary and flying nightmare high

and he can’t remember where he was
on the day anybody died
he just remembers hearing about it
after the bodies are long gone

comic book mentality
memory like mercury
feeling his life change
shot up with Technicolor lust
wanting Selena Kyle
always finding Lois Lane

Author: mjfeldmar

Marcel Feldmar was born and raised in Vancouver, BC—(That’s Canada, eh?). He studied creative writing at Capilano College and then ended up spending some time in an institution called The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, and now he lives in Los Angeles where his words often get caught in traffic.

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