Saturn Puking Up His Son — Z. Qazi
poetry ☆
poetry ☆
Into the toilet bowl, bloodied mess and torn limbs,
bite-sized pizza rolls burnt red exploding at the seams
of where slimy skin remembered
teeth tearing
repeated images and repeated sounds
bursting electric blue screens into static
on your tongue.
None of it means anything, you know,
words and phrases and songs swiped and clicked and
prodded by your sore thumb and reddened eyes
drowning airspace with blind colors and
book reviews and clicky music
bright adverts on pretty-packaged poison and
pressed words for spammed comments
wrestlers toying the ring, chairs for sale, rotted
tomatoes tossed in the air aimless in trajectory—
as long as it hits someone,
dying face in saturated rust and slinging backwards
until bruised and bleeding and torn face
meets cruel concrete
enveloping broken nose reddening man-made earth—
fallen angel, broken lamp, ran-over highway nightmares
like you saw in a
movie once
and the audience cheered, voices screaming more
and again and subscribe and buy buy buy:
bloodied bile floating in still water
Have your bathroom tiles —blood on skin
always looked cracked?
Z. Qazi is a South Florida-based writer, editor, digital archivist, and cultural worker whose practice centers on preserving and amplifying underrepresented histories through media and storytelling. With a background in English, museum studies, and archival work, her work spans community-based archives, exhibition curation, and digital preservation.
