HORROR Poem: 0501, by Chendi Xu

Pouring is the dark water —
as if a black curtain,
which suddenly covers the window in front of you,
which you try to close
by a hearth in a murky kitchen —
that streaks down.

Pouring is the water from a tea bottle —
coming your way,
on the clothes, on the bed sheet;
the yellow traces on the wall —
and the yelling and the anger.

Sprinkled are the red paints —
as if blood spots,
spilled on the bed and the wall over the bedhead,
by some mice or cockroaches
coming from a crack on the floor,
in which a red electrical lighting in shape of a line
you see through the crack is their “nest” —
and the rain and the deluge from a fire hydrant
targeted at the crack.

Pouring are the purple stains —
puke after a bottle of red wine,
over half of the bathroom,
on the sink, on the toilet, on the floor,
after which you drag a half-conscious body to the bed,
with a disposable plastic glove on one hand —
and the spray from the shower head
to clean the scene.

Author: poetryfest

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