Swirl, Mad

by on June 8, 2013 :: 0 comments

Our self-portraits are warning labels on cigarette packets.
Bones burn as white wedding chapels afire, alone among desert dunes;
as smoke stains heaven’s floorboards, we use angel’s halos as toilet bowls.
There is more than deviancy in our beautified bodies and emptying glasses.

We’re the boys and girls next door—you can hear our fucking
through walls. When it stops, we write about yesterday
for tomorrow’s sake because we won’t remember tonight.
And you’ll hate us, because we’ll love you for what you don’t—

We want your dull bones, chilled blood; we’ll bring you fire as
we move mountains to drain oceans. We don’t sleep, but we dream
for all who live to sleep. For them, we’ll see mankind’s monumental end.
We can’t tell you how to live—all writers write is how to live lost.

All we want isn’t fifteen-minutes of fame, we seek failure:
to write false starts, to stand at the sidelines sucking Gatorade
as people play atop a lop-sided slant believing all the world is level.
Say speaking up is the devil, we’ll just call it our nightly hobby.

Earth dry gulps but breathes a sigh of relief as we banish paper asteroids
to waste bins, but dies during billion dollar summer blockbusters.
Earth lives for Big Gulps and telling art to shut the fuck up! It’s trying
to sleep. But we keep the bed hot, sheets sweaty, the swirled world burning.

editors note:

The food of poets is not for the average constitution, is unconstitutional, but has legs; indeed, will skitter under your kitchen appliances when you turn on the lights. Readers, rest assured; you won’t eat our food, only our regurgitations. Ambrosia; like sausage, tastes best if you don’t know how it’s made. – mh

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