Dada will not
be home for dinner.
The mess hall is a
mess. Actually
unrecognizable, but
so is Dada.
Your father,
if,
he returns
home,
will be
ravin' mad. PTSD-frightful,
this once-
delightful man.
Like a raven
with feathers
oiled, spoiled
forever for
flight.
Wandering in the
fucking muck.
Duck
and
cover. The sky's
falling
and heaven
with it under
Dada's decaying boots.
be home for dinner.
The mess hall is a
mess. Actually
unrecognizable, but
so is Dada.
Your father,
if,
he returns
home,
will be
ravin' mad. PTSD-frightful,
this once-
delightful man.
Like a raven
with feathers
oiled, spoiled
forever for
flight.
Wandering in the
fucking muck.
Duck
and
cover. The sky's
falling
and heaven
with it under
Dada's decaying boots.
Written for MeetingTheBar—DaDa Daddy, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Victoria C. Slotto. Her prompt concerned Dadism, with several ideas to let "that perhaps dormant revolutionary that lurks in your subconscious and write a poem that takes you and the reader outside of that well-defined comfort zone." I chose to write ekphrasis using the work of a Dadaist artist, specifically George Grosz's The Wanderer.
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