Cluck Poem by Ricky Lewis

“He’ll stand on his own two heads, watching, waiting
Brought to life, cast to death, Re-unimagined
Unable to retrace though is mind will intertwine
Birthed and aborted at the same instant.”

“He punched so hard, the tears squeezed not from fear,
but from muscular stress
He screamed so loud, the sweat poured through, not from pain,
but from iron salvation”

“He would grasp the throat. Righteously
Clutch and grip until the face was blue.
Crush and clench the air. Valiantly.
And it was his power. But rightfully? ”

Is this man taller for his act, his revelation
Perhaps his mind is becoming wax under the sun
Dribbling from the nose and ears like some sewer
A sewer mind. Mindless sewer. The left and right sewer side.
Suicide? He thinks not. He is still alive.

He will wake up running, falling. Falling again. He makes quite a splash.
He must not have good balance. Some chemical disturbance.
Like a sine traveling across a pond, like a stone or bird or body bag
Skipping with the most blissful mindset. God this man is deranged.

And he tends to talk a lot. Not in English. Or Spanish. Or Chinese.
He can’t quite put his finger on it. Some sort of dolphin click.
An aboriginal squelch and cluck, it’s quite fascinating. Not to mention
The shivering. It’s absurd, like a crazed atomic body. He’s electric.

But without his face?
He can’t speak of course
But you hear it. It’s loud
And abrasive. It actually burns your brain.
Imagine taking lye and basting your cranium with it.
But as soon as the clicks, clucks, and squelches cease
The pain evaporates. And the thought of him is damned.

Who has seen him? I haven’t I can’t even remember the last time I saw myself.
This mirror I bought is very cheap. I am not that fat.
And my face is not barren and gaunt like some factory wall. I should take this back.
And while I’m at it, did you find the receipt for my mind?

There it is again. The shriek of this. Item he is. I understand his words.
Though they are pained
There’s a sense of peace within them.
He tells us all the time about his following. I guess he’s quite popular.
I can’t remember the name he told me. Jason? Jeremy? No.
He speaks of all these halos. Boy he can paint a picture.
Too bad he says he’s dead. Or some form of it. I wonder what that’s like.

Swimming in that cesspool of an afterlife.
Imagine the scum and algae that’s accumulated.
Not every living person was a good one.
That god damn cluck. Shut up please.

“But I can hold it so tightly. You speak lies. You filthy child.
You emulate every wrong thing. Wrong like a million heads.
You’re nothing but a squishy hydra politician. You and your suit and your cheating.
God you are just a slug who needs a dash of salt.”

God damn it, shut up! Why do you speak to me? From my birth and until my coffin, will you speak to me as such?

“Cluck. Cluck cluck cluck. My friend, perhaps you should start Clickcluck taking your Stelazine”

I remember you now. I knew I’d recall. That name of yours. How could it be so foul!

“What’s my name? ”

Jesus?

And the phantasm dissolves.