God’s Teeth on repeat,
like Lover’s Kiss for Nietzsche’s kids
a shuffleboard of blending slurs and words
you hear but do not understand,
so awfully difficult, this life, all hip-cocked standing
rolling eyes and statements thumbed into your phone,
announcing we are not alone
into a cold uncaring server tower.
Who knows, it might not have effect but Holy Other’s curing this
overdramatic pride-malaise and jarr-
We pause. Stand. Take a breather. Move on to something cheerier.
It might cut through and not slide off like smiles did off of Quirrel’s core.
The Battle Magic nevermore.
A book you never helped to write,
and failed the final test.
Settle down into your chair, allow it just to pour and take that slivered moment in.
And now we’re
thanking Lorde for synths and
Ribs and little hiding places
in the body you inhabit
when you cannot stand alone
again. So taking hours for time and
then we turn to Ornaments and
send a thought to all the happy
kin we haven’t spied and rarely
lend our days, or ears leaning to
bend and offer our condolenc
es for graven sermons losing
them until in black suits standing
penned we raise a half-filled glass in
memory, awash with marshy
glen and salt and our hallucino
gens, this is our life and they are gone
and we have wasting flesh to keep,
along with dust filled mattresses and Ivor Gurney losing Sleep.
What else is hung upon the head?
Your meat still breathes, we are not ____