Poetry: Rob Plath

lone rose fist

i had a dream my heart was on the opposite side of the room glowing red in the pitch dark. it even spoke as it floated there breaking it to me that it had to vacate my chest. “how am i still alive?” i asked, expecting to suddenly collapse. “you’ll be okay w/out me,” it consoled. “you’ll live,” it added but i just stared at it hanging there like a lone rose fist two arm lengths away & i was so sad that my heart had moved out that i awoke weeping & hugged myself knowing it had returned to my body...



my demons

i know those
terrible bastards
like the backs
of my hands

in fact, they are
the backs
& palms
& fingers too
etc..

& when they’re not
clawing at
my f*ing windpipe

they’re helping
type the goddamn
poems

like now

rad,
demons...


enjoy yr spread under the sun while you can, sons-of-bitches

on
the
flipside
of
the
dirt

the
maggots
eavesdrop
on
yr
picnic

snickering
&
drooling
over
the
day
you’ll
make
the
six
foot
descent

a
large
dark
wooden
basket
full
of
cadaver
sandwiches

upon
their
black
uncheckered
blanket

death machine

father, why did you pass on to me
this death machine?
when i was in rapture couch surfing
in the wilderness of heaven
visiting star after star
napping upon the brims of their twinkling hats?
father, why did you signal for the terrible hook
to disturb my silver sleep
& have me stuffed in this heavy death machine?
now i am nothing but gears that grind
year after year
rusting from tears & daydreaming
of my old blue homeland


BIO: Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He was once tutored by Allen GInsberg for two years from 1995-1997. He has published 22 books and a ton of poems in the small presses over the last 26 years. He lives with his cat and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

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