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Phobos and Deimos
by WC Roberts
under a cloud of Martian dust and smog
in a cheap hotel room ("weekly rates")
even with the pills I cannot sleep
not within spitting distance of the Casino
where, in a back room, dressed in his discarded spacesuit
no helmet, her ash blonde hair in a ponytail
the girl of my dreams
in a flashback, distilled with fear
listening to Vivaldi concertos ad nauseum (they all seemed
the same to me; she said that I was numbed
to beauty and distinction) as she tinkered with slots
on the fritz as I was, never knowing...
The flashing neon sign outside my hotel window
topless/bottomless--All Nude review
gives me the chills; I know they're only waiting for me
to slide down that abyss carved out for me
on the day that I was born, in the Year of the Dragon
their bulging halite eyes like shivs in my back
watching over me, night and day, to make complete
my junk and lubrication, my simulacra too
going down to the catacombs
beneath the city, and its dry lakebed
a place crawling with mechanized insects, who read minds
on the fritz as I am, as she was
curled up birdlike, an embryo in a chair
pushed up against the door
to keep out
the naked and the dead
WC Roberts dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes. He appeared previously in Chrome Baby 63 and 69, and many other magazines.
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