Blank. Eye.
Blank stares.
Muffled agitation.

Consternation meets with eye fire
debates down to the wire
bubbling barometric pressure
spewing forth
from the microphone.

Leaning on the microphone stand
the nations are bleeding
a pause before the show begins
slanted, jaded, swaying
laying whacks and speeding ahead.

Off the tracks he roams
a road with its own rules
standing on its souls
growing boils
festering soils.

Ruined sneaker soles.
digging up dirt and reading polls
reigning rolls
discarded bowls feeding on souls.

It sticks. Thick. Blow out the candle
wick as we amuse ourselves to death
we clean up a bit
falling into the pit
but before we can kick back
we’re in the sack and we hit the brick.

Our trinkets
draw us in
silence her and him
for a few more years.

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About the Contributor

Mark Nenadov

Mark Nenadov
Mark Nenadov is a poet from Essex, Ontario, Canada. He lives with his lovely wife and their three young children. Mark's poems have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies in the United States, Canada, Pakistan, India, Australia, England, and Ireland. See for more details. 

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