Mark Scroggins



Damage Poem


Consider the poem as killing machine, sharpened word-gears
turning word-gears, greased and shining engine-block of pornographic
technology not the catherine-wheel of "genuine" emotion rising
from the swamp of tranquil reflection. It twists
the threads of Penelope's loom into knotted elf-locks,
seeds the reader's browser with subversive cookies:
the poem as vicious animal; the poem as
tumor, bulbous and unclipped umbilicus. No more poems
as consolation. I want the poem as damage.