A dead rat don’t move
Unless you do its moving.
But let that steely stink
Of rat-rot drag itself back
Into the darkest cracks of your
Jelly-roll mind folds,
It will turn trapped,
Attack, and claw your dreams
Wide-wide awake.
—- Mortimer X
This is part of an experiment in poetry wherein I try to write with a different voice, one more raw and visceral, less rational. I call this alter-poet Mortimer X, for no specific reason other than he represents a certain puerile rebellion from my more lofty attempts at self-expression (high school chess club meets Malcolm X). Let me know what you think. As for Mortimer X himself, he couldn’t care less….
Great Exudations 