Last good poem

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,

thoughtless, weightless, drifting, rubber eating tarmac, pound, pound, pound, faces flash by, sinister, reptilian, shark-like features snapping through the window panes streaked with rain and blood, demons appear in the eyes of the old, flesh and sinew melting - merging into grotesque haunted shadows, gigantic rabid wolves hurling themselves under the wheels, thump, thump, more casualties board the bus, "wan fur the centre, big man", my vision is filled with images of pain - limbs missing - skin blackened and blistering, rivulets of blood congealing under foot, my head imploding with the screams and moans of war, nearly gagging with the stench of death and humanity,

"ya prick, it's your f*****g fault, ya f*****g prick,", my dead wife, eyes sunken black orbs, is holding the head of my lost baby boy, a sob escapes me, "no", slowly, slowly, she moves towards me, screaming obscenities, my hands tighten into fists, breath is caught, vicelike, in my chest, no, no, no, shaking my head, legs trembling, slowly, slowly, "ya f*****g prick," no, no, no, no, slowly, slowly, drip, drip, drip, blood splattering from the lacerated neck stump of my beautiful baby boy, " I love you, my baby, I want to kiss your little feet one last time, no, no, f*****g no," rocking now, faster, faster, slowly, slowly, rocking so hard I throw my head back trying to snap the thing off, no No f*****g leave me alone, Mummy, Mummy, where are you, screaming now, screaming rocking sweating, feeling the wetness spreading across my crotch and seeing nothing of my dead wife, where the f**k is she, frantically searching the crowd, some of them eyeing me suspiciously, some blatantly ignoring me, I'm watching all you fuckers, I'm reading your txtmail thoughts,

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,

watching shapes and street light tracers flashing by...bye,

Reviews

[CD Campbell]

This is exceedingly violent. Dead wives. Dead babies. Wet crotches. It rolls over you hard and fast. You can barely breath with the imagery like a steamroller that presses you to the road. It is something that you can't look away from, but don't want to slow down too much or you could get caught in it. Pretty damn good, Gram.

[gram linski]

cheers CD, a lot more constructive than your last review, lol

[Steven Paul Romero]

Whew!
Captures a horrific scene.
Very realistic!

[gram linski]

thanks Steven, not that realistic it wasn't me, but I was on the bus, lol

[Steven Paul Romero]

I like the descriptive nature of this piece. Very instructive.
Thanks again for sharing

[Eilis]

I read a story (news story) once about a family whose son committed suicide after returning from war in the Middle East. The father detailed how changed his son was; how incapable he was of encountering the world any longer. How one night, the grown man begged his father to hold him in his lap and rock him. I can’t forget that story.

There are so many people walking through the world with hurts like this. Living in a world they have always been in that feels predatory and alien. And the evidence abounds. The world hurts us, and if not us directly others we love or have contact with. It’s unavoidable. How does the soul hold up under the strain of experience.

You paint a bleak picture, Gram. My mind winces at the scenes and ideas expressed here. My heart wants to be the availability that the lonely, broken man needs. But as your poem also shows, loneliness is pervasive and infects every corner of the mind. I could point to the alienation of modern society or the collateral of war as roots to the horror expressed here. Both seem relevant and to have their place. But, reason isn’t as important as the immediate need. Sometimes the moment is all we have. When it’s lost it’s lost.

I don’t know. I’m trying to figure this out. It’s haunting and jarring. Apocalyptic. But not hard to think of as a cut scene out of our times. That’s difficult to say.

Strong, impacting work from you.

[gram linski]

got some mates that were in the Army in Bosnia, and they don't talk much about the s**t, but every now and again you look at them and see the thousand yard stare/ no-one there, but in a fight you know they are going to go apeshit, you are trained to kill, now f**k of back to normality

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

This is disturbing. It might not be a "last good poem," but it seems more like the mind of a mad man, with nothing to lose, headed straight down the highway to hell.

[gram linski]

thanks Linda, this kinda came from left field, usually quite a happy sane sort of guy, spoiler alert, don't read any more you might get the wrong idea, lol

[jacob erin-cilberto]

wow, here we are searching for that Last good poem....and finding that the last one happens to be totally violent...the end of his world...even if he didn't create it...the suspect life, everything in it implodes...
he is trying to capture the end in his poem...everything he loved gone...everyone who loved him turned against him.
no peace, no peace, no peace,
just the heartbeat of hate as the curtain to life's play comes down one last time.
j.

[gram linski]

thanks, j. another insightful poem, some people might call it a review, are your e-mails to the bank this poetic

[Crowley]

It’s like watching the world go up in flames from one who had everything to lose. The Russian roulette scene from Deer Hunter popped into my head as all the violent and very real images pounded me. What a staggering write, loved and hated it all at the same time. That sir makes for excellent writing!!!

[gram linski]

thanks, Crowley, not sure why this dark disturbing monster was lurking about my brain, but better out than in, glad you loved it and hated it at the same time, sounds like my ex wife, lol

[Chris]

"Apocalypse Art"... I was reading a fair "Z' Novel earlier and this piece just fit in with the "Shock and Hell" theme very succinctly. For a society pretty much PTSD'ed-out, psychotic episodes find their way into our neural paths in ways people used to use for "Shock" value as if that style was THE Magic Way to ensure THEY and THEIR thoughts would overwhelm anyone else's less self-fulfilling view.

[gram linski]

hey Chris, been a while, as always you get right to the bleeding, bleeding heart of the gist of the jizz,

[Chris]

Yeah, it's been a while. How ya holding up?

[gram linski]

still living breathing, cracked and broken, apart from that grand, and you,

[Chris]

Just as you...

[gram linski]

let's imbibe with the cracked and broken, slange,

[Chris]

anytime man ...anytime

[Robert Trakofler]

this feels like a panic attack the kind that wakes you up in a cold sweat and you cant move cause you cant fix direction in the room you cant tell which way gravity is pulling you so your stuck praying for anything to steady. Reading this made my heart start to race in a flashback recall of those nights. The ticking time bomb reward for too many triggers setting your soul on fire and stealing the ground from under your feet:(
poignant expression Gram

[gram linski]

Thanks B, felt a bit like a heart attack writing it, still not sure where it came from

[John Alexander McFadyen]

This is the most profound poem of yours I have ever read gram! It is filled with emotion and visceral descriptions of suffering and loss and helplessness.

[gram linski]

not sure how profound it is, John, but I do appreciate a good review, thanks,