Softly triggered the dial-tone,
Told me why I was alone,
Beeping grains of sadness static,
Electronic erotica being erratic

Before the skeletons of athletes,
The martyr rinses and repeats,
As her voice like a tsunami breaks,
Breaking mine into gasping flakes

That heaven dweller must be a clown,
His blue umbrella held upside down,
Drown with me so I’m never alone -
Give me death or dial-tone.

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MISSquoted** said...

how did you do that? transform the most banal and ever-ready dial tone into a whispered plea for help?

surajsharma said...

Hey, thanks so much for reading the poem. A modem was involved in the act, I believe.

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