Poetry
Undertow
Keith Flynn
Any man may call
spirits from the dark,
but what will he say
when they come
and what will he do
when they stop?
5,000 people disappear every year,
blotted out by passing strangers
who smiled in greeting
or gently touched their hair.
We become enemies in the borderland,
where all governments kill,
one false move from celebrity.
We get out 15 minutes of fame
by sitting in front of a TV audience
and purging our fathers,
our fucks and our fears,
just as friendly as you and me.
But to murder in volume,
to get your own trading card,
you have to sleep well
at night after having sex
with a corpse.
You have to go into the darkness
and eradicate everything
that is different from you
or loves you
or impedes your movement.
Pushing out, until you
are firmly up above it all
and there is nothing
against your feet,
except the feral testimonies
and pure shadow.
Held aloft by the normalcy
that reflects your speed & precision,
worships the rush of your air,
blown to the aft railing & weightless
in the wake of the great undertow.