In a pause after a slug, he mentioned poetry
I took a poetry class this quarter and I'm working on revising some stuff for my final portfolio. Here's a poem I'm working on. Tell me what you think. Really brutal, viciously honest feedback is the kind that I like.
Cul De Sac
By Joel Sinensky
A manicured street with pedigreed trees,
The jingle of chotsky’s affixed to keys,
The lemon trees sweat, perspiring liquors
While the sweating sun sways to the sensuous purrs
Of Buckles, the Cat, lying peaceful and still,
Slurps blood off his black, still wet from the kill.
White sizzles of egg splatter on the wall,
The coffee is black, and handsome, and tall.
“Breakfast!” the Wife shrieks, a spatula grin,
A guilty red boil capsizes her chin.
The Husband steps in, wholesome, still robust
A warmth in his eyes that is poised to combust.
He grabs at her wrist and she spits at his cheek
“I shall own you one day, as the strong own the weak”
“Oh, you!” the wife laughs, her eyes darting with fear,
Crest-whitened teeth trapped in lollipop cheer.
The Son watches all, while gnawing French toast.
His morning erection, aloof, yet verbose.
And newspapers fly, and smash each front door,
While men in robes stare, searching for more, more,
More children march, into the abyss,
Spine-twisting textbooks, a bloodied mud kiss.
And the Wife hangs her head, and remembers being full
Of bright burnished dreams, but now the sharp pull
Of snot on the counter, thick hair choking
The sink, and sponges in hand, she’s soaking
Up the remnants of childhood dreams.
The dishwasher vomits a thick fog of steam.
Down her cheek rolls a tear, framed like a marquee
What once she called lost, now looks just like free.
She dreams of champagne, of a swelling jazz band,
Of a dance on the moon, their tongues hand-in-hand,
Of rubbing her feet through the supple white sand…
Linoleum floors just don’t understand.
And Susie, next door, skipping before school
Splashes her shoes in a roundabout pool
Of blood, and she screams, as the sun casts its light
On her gerbil Pete’s head, his eyes pearly and white.
Cul De Sac
By Joel Sinensky
A manicured street with pedigreed trees,
The jingle of chotsky’s affixed to keys,
The lemon trees sweat, perspiring liquors
While the sweating sun sways to the sensuous purrs
Of Buckles, the Cat, lying peaceful and still,
Slurps blood off his black, still wet from the kill.
White sizzles of egg splatter on the wall,
The coffee is black, and handsome, and tall.
“Breakfast!” the Wife shrieks, a spatula grin,
A guilty red boil capsizes her chin.
The Husband steps in, wholesome, still robust
A warmth in his eyes that is poised to combust.
He grabs at her wrist and she spits at his cheek
“I shall own you one day, as the strong own the weak”
“Oh, you!” the wife laughs, her eyes darting with fear,
Crest-whitened teeth trapped in lollipop cheer.
The Son watches all, while gnawing French toast.
His morning erection, aloof, yet verbose.
And newspapers fly, and smash each front door,
While men in robes stare, searching for more, more,
More children march, into the abyss,
Spine-twisting textbooks, a bloodied mud kiss.
And the Wife hangs her head, and remembers being full
Of bright burnished dreams, but now the sharp pull
Of snot on the counter, thick hair choking
The sink, and sponges in hand, she’s soaking
Up the remnants of childhood dreams.
The dishwasher vomits a thick fog of steam.
Down her cheek rolls a tear, framed like a marquee
What once she called lost, now looks just like free.
She dreams of champagne, of a swelling jazz band,
Of a dance on the moon, their tongues hand-in-hand,
Of rubbing her feet through the supple white sand…
Linoleum floors just don’t understand.
And Susie, next door, skipping before school
Splashes her shoes in a roundabout pool
Of blood, and she screams, as the sun casts its light
On her gerbil Pete’s head, his eyes pearly and white.