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electric prophet | poem

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Okay: before you go any further, i admit to feeling a wee bit down these days, so take these as you will, or won’t, whatever the case. They just are. – thanks. srp

Electric Prophet

First they glue the wires to your head
a tangled sea of greens and reds,
the metal probes near your nose, mouth,
cheek, each a monitor of some
electric hiccup. It grips you hard
by the root, you bite your tongue
until the blood runs and the bell
is rung at the placid nurses station.
They charge in with some brief,
yellow pill, all promise and relief
a sticky chemical spill, the pricked
veins that do not bleed the same
but are sickly sweet with the smell
of Dilauid and death. You lay
rigid and seizing, wired for sound,
an ancient mystic priestess
all elbows and knees, you kick
the air, suck great breaths
despair, despair! Wait for
the witch doctor, which doctor, the one
who’ll throw the switch and you’re off
down the hole, chasing a white rabbit.

Catch him. He is your witness.

sadi ranson-polizzotti

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About Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti

  • Claire Robinson

    A vivid, well written poem which uses language like a paintbrush. The phrase “the witch doctor, which doctor”
    is amazing.

  • thanks, Claire. It likely needs some spit and polish, but i think it stands nonetheless for what i wanted it to be. of course, one always strives to be better – so helpful comments come from here often – either way, it’s all helpful. Thx. for reading this. I appreciate it. Thinking of posting another today, perhaps.