The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Backroom

Once I found
a solitary
echo chamber,
strange space,
risen from a desert 
of groping and grunts,
sudden inrush of air
leaves my chest turgid
breasts beckoning and 
fecund, yet I frown,
soft shame, a sullen shadow
the only light in this 
place.

Smell
moldy and dark 
stains drip brown down
pools where demons spawn
and trauma evolves
from imp to troll,
huddled the skulking,
albino eyes pierced 
by winces of esteem.

I was sold
disney sensibilities
one golden ticket to 
ride the white steed,
excalibur drawn,
quaffing elixors 
of freedom rights
but alas it was but
sad whore-paint 
ne'er to cover my 
naked flatulence
or gollumnity.

I jerked off in the corner- 
couldn't help my excretions,
diurnal verbal emissions, 
spat and scat covers
my bloody scars,
fetid attar 
because, you say,
I am annointed, with a 
mellifluidity of voice.

What shapes I do cast
upon your cave walls
from a spine 
ne'er to arise or erect
arms never to embrace
or dissemble strange
sign language of words,
grunts that fail to name
or persuade chimeras 
out from the shadows.

Yet I am 
a prince of the ages
of the seven thousandth generation
blood pure as any demigod
even my mother held me under
the river Styx, bloody baptism,
entrails cast in a sacred symbol,
last of the prophecied.

But my superpower,
my indefatigable uniqueness
is that I will 
ne'er penetrate or portend
or ground the unwound,
feral bundle of spasms
and effluences,
only to leave the unseen mark, 
in a color no one can see,
strange ultraviolence of
candor and release.

Even piss penetrates 
unspoiled sinuses with 
the spendings of metabolic bliss,
I deposit
bezoars of salty diamonds 
in trappings of ambergris 
To despoil you of disease
and the weight of dampness
To heal entropy's scar 
from your forehead and 
forgive your original sin.
■





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