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“Symphorophilia, or Crash: 1898” by Michael Cantin

  1. To the rail

Taken under duress, mid congress,
my petticoats torn,
I find myself bound to the track.

Ostensibly, for ransom.
But who pray tell, sir, are you
extorting?

Your glee is as plain as
the malicious mustache on your face.
But I shall not cry, sir.
No, I shall not wail.

You will not take my voice
with your pernicious tongue.

  1. Lascivious Folly

They all scream, sweet thing,
they always scream.

This collision is a stage
and you are but the dressing.
Nothing more
than a supporting role.

I need not your lines,
for I am the soliloquy.
I am the monologue in the crash.
I am all they need to hear.

They will scream, sweet thing.
They’re just like me, in the end.
They’re only here for the climax.


Michael Cantin is aspiring poet and sloth fanatic residing somewhere in the wilds of Orange, California. He writes fitfully between bouts of madness and periods of lucid concern. His poetry has appeared both online and in print.  You can find his work in The East Jasmine Review, Melancholy Hyperbole, 50 Haiku, several anthologies, and elsewhere.  He hopes that you find the same sublimity is the surreal and absurd that he does.

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