Nuclear Winter Wonderland | Teen Ink

Nuclear Winter Wonderland

December 10, 2009
By ezrazimmerman GOLD, Menlo Park, California
ezrazimmerman GOLD, Menlo Park, California
12 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
-Oscar Wilde

Spring seems too hot and fall feels cold seen through the cracked bifocal lens of pen modeling battalions of stationary stores stationery in infatuation of one just out of focus photographic butterfly net capturer of flawless runaway moments of she and me makes wall writing poetics struck dumb in awe trapped in times of stopped clocks scribbling gibberish lines rekindling burnt out butts of witches’ tits and ash rewinding to favorite scenes of an almost fathered shining son conceived in summer that will be ruined but not yet stillborn or aborted as dimlit brainchild made lukewarm so retreat to two bit fictions of Silvia Plath getting easybaked Verlaine and Rimbaud testing Ikea beds Thoreau pitching an REI tent rent asunder by sky shaking thunder crying saltandpepperwater acid raindroplets dousing half-lit fires spawned by the bomb that made her barren accidentally dropped when we took wing to the moon on our holy slow train blinded by unfiltered sunlight glare through windows singing “summertime and the living is-” and DUI copilots tripped flying high above every roof of any world derailed and whirled down sans boom or bang of blanks or cymbal crash or clash of steel or mushroom cloud just drowned out pop of water balloon underhand lobbed from afar in uncivil weekend war evaporating before it hit the ground mid-soar ear ringing roars deafening silent sounds crack windows round blocks into darkness break open flimsy millimeter thin ozone roofs shatter stars into shooting shards of glass that cut listless wrists of friendless ends friendly and or fiery inadvertently intended martyr targets brother and sister in arms blowing lipless chocolate chap stick kisses lost in rising winds weighed down by me bearing burden of 21 grams blackjack still gambling with masochistic ramblings of “HIT ME” and hits on she bearing burden of underage bulls eye tattoos in empty space beneath curdled milk breasts and baring and baring and baring them in every all-night Joe or Jim or Jack or Jill for hundreds of nameless faces of faceless names who taking aim turning on pumping heartless rush of blood into her veins by hands by Jove by tongue and cheek until so called gods and copilots crucified her for being out of this world a photogenic down to earth deity expensively framed hung up in the air put out with the wash on noosed dental floss clotheslines betwixt signs of cross legs faux levitating lotus position above beneath celestial shingles of now leaking fallout shelter tenement roofs with windowless rooms looking out on starless skies that once kept insides dry and warm in the eye and ear and mouth of a storm my cracked lens couldn’t see coming but a camera lens could and all my pens can’t describe in thousands of words but a simple picture can painted or snapped divided by distance subtracted from focus added to every anxious color translated to touch burned into memory faded with age stained with blood sweat and years cropped photoshopped and airbrushed all ripped to shreds then taped back together again and held in the breast pocket of my innermost coat as the cloud dissipates the fallout clears the radiation spears all above ground and spares those at least six feet under and thunder echoes away until the storm blows over nuclear winter turns to spring the sleeping beauty on her cross may rise and mutant blue jays sing when resurrected I shall harmonize for I will never feel as cold again nor ever hate the hot of spring

The author's comments:
"I have seen them riding seaward on the waves/Combing the white hair of the waves blown back/When the wind blows the water white and black/We have lingered in the chambers of the sea/With sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown/Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
-T. S. Eliot

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