Shock Wave Night Song by Peter Magliocco

Putting a frazzled head into vanity’s sun
in self-cannibalizing eccentricity
created a new lexicon for burning brains,
while ultraviolet heat waves bombard us
from a galactic radio’s nerve center.
Strains coursing through French tongues
lacerate snake-bit stomachs screaming:
The pit of being is always an unknown
quotient we sing from 60s’ Rock records
simmering in the pot of vomit streaked vinyl
scratched by Jim Morrison’s whiskey bottles
I later smash over his graven gravestone.
That summer in Paris it rained havoc
so often the Seine river rose unstoppably
with the high notes of a stoned chanteuse
crooning from her antiquated windows.
The gothic earth itself swooned in upheaval,
cooking the flesh of those still surviving
as my gargoyle heart sang back to me
the dyspeptic eulogy for a rocking manna.
Because the night was made for us
I sang for those who gave sustenance
to the spirit and the flesh
broken guitar strings still pluck for,
canonizing vibes for the holy ghost
who devours our cosmic sound barriers.

Peter Magliocco 2
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active in small press circles both as editor and poetry scribe. His latest poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium from The Medulla Review Publishing.

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