PTSD, poetry by Dennis Mahagin

January 28, 2016 by RJ

“… Close your eyes, it’s about to begin …”
-James Dewar

What you think of my screen? Amanda
I can’t trust anything, save for the past. Robin Trower? Bridge of Sighs?
What about the guy who sang, in his band? The name, even now, is coming
to me, standing in for others, maybe a brand of Scotch? He could belt it out,
stay with me; we’ll watch TV; shopping channels especially, they calms me;
before the flashback, before panic, botched surgery, the electric shoals
of spawning ground entropy, there’s innocence, some Perma Grin, barbecue,
stench of French fries, then propane, a whistle, pressure cooker bomb:
at Boston Marathon, the carnage stays on… Oh dearest A., it hangs
up there, wicked which, flying nails, the sirens and skin grafts, concentric
bloody stupor … as blenders and vacuums, say, roar, on infomercials, Home
Shopping Network; chunk of cement tossed off an overpass, will fuck your ass
up; the jack hammer via windshield, bunch of blue sparks, psycho punks
choking on their hysteria, their hyena laughter; … or the aneurysm
foreseen: the best guitar solos are never played fast, think Trower, again,
or May of Queen, red balloon filling with tap water, gullets of pythons, her skirt
up there, on a flat screen, with pleats, Kelly what’s her name, green as the gills
on a show host, looks all of nineteen, and innocence takes on new hues:
Amanda, I’m so glad to sit, to sit here, and chill with you …
I can’t trust a limb, until it’s lopped off, stripped bare, all the blood vessels
and cartilage, nerves hanging there, like poinsettia skins, tinted with taters
and catsup and tinsel. Amanda I trust nothing, till it comes with a certain buzz
say it is electro shock hunting the trip wire, dead solid dread, her bracelets
blinking baubles and bangs, bangs, bangs, bangs, bangs, bangs, BANGS
…don’t ever call it premonition, I’ll clear my throat, change channels,
the name of the singer, it comes to me; dirty hands that shake hold
Old Gold cigarettes: is it James? Sure, stay with me, past the dot
of a TV, flaring out, Star Spangled Banner I can’t spit, flinch, nor swallow
finest Scotch. Yet I remember amber in a shot glass, bright, blooming glow,
sweet sigh on my stumbling streets; every turn of the bridge, Amanda,
kid, be the spell standing in for grace, it’s minute by minute, now Dewar
he sang it well, before dissolving with the blast I get to re live, to re-live,
to predict; re-live, and predict: the past is my screen, the only that exists.
Stay for just a bit, longer girl this world is torn, and up too fast.

 

 

DENNIS MAHAGIN is a poet from Montana.
With each passing day he has less, and less
and less to say. Google his sorry ass anyway
if the spirit must move. We are all but dust.

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