life's final flat in f-minor - leonardo oizruc

L I F E  B E G I N S — 

                            an assemblage,

               a skeleton key, bent

  on unlocking 3/4 time—

        the other hand steady, gripping the rhythm

                                                         that shatters ice.

       We juggle

                  Life              and           Death,

             right hand countering left—

             God,         a brooding presence,

     alpha                       slipping into                         omega.

  It’s not some golden sprawl

                       of mandatory bliss,

no prime-time TV contest,

                      no elite gatherings,

but something more—the right hand’s illusion.

          The left hand, harsher:

         Coke eats rust,

 cigarettes choke,

                 three lagers too many and you’re adrift,

a joint frying synapses

                    like popcorn kernels.

Short thoughts collide,

                 words jumble—nonsense on repeat.

We tally the wreckage,

                            a list long enough

to overflow the table,

and when it rains,

        the drenched drown in its

                                        downpour.

The whole body is clenched. Inside and outside the palm of his hand, Leonardo Oizruc's physique exerts an impact. This means that he makes a fist-like gesture after sending a surge through his core. He stands firm on his feet, shielding this wave from harm. Cushioning is so prevalent. A thrust is present. Naturally, there is also nothingness.