by Suzán Jiván, Mom
& Mom-Mom Suzán
Packing a wallop
in a stark electronica
as an optional demand
partly left to "per chance"
permeating the second half
of a monochromatic calamity
like a bafflingly pale stare
in an alarming fantasy
of frumpy gray
seeking to navigate
through metal frames
with melted phrases
pimping their way
to daydreamed ovations
towards sporadic clapping
for "should-not-bes"
too hard to keep clean
as emasculating comedies
addictingly ugly and jarring
like bizarringly downbeat wannabes
in boxing rings
with bone-deep
whoopees struggling
to get it up in stand up
after stumbling
as a stuck-up grown up
abruptly dumbstruck
by the insultingly vulgar
underlying assumptions
of chumminess
suddenly debunked
by symbiotic bonds
exponentially enlarged
and seemingly impossible
as glamour shots gone
horribly preposterous
like controversial artists
on the edges of a sob
filled with aplomb
bouncing eagerly on
highly charged
in a slapstick romp
passing for snarling and grotty
over a sinewy melancholy
pockmarked by gamecocks...
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