or this
idea of everything lost
eventually
being found
this
idea of hope as a
fist in
the shape of god
a dog
on fire crossing
an
endless desert
because
listen -
what’s
the point of being
famous
once you’re dead?
we are
a kingdom of corpse-fuckers.
for
sure,
but why
not try to pull our heads
from
our asses and
see the
clean light of day?
and
this is what i ask frankie b,
you
understand,
on the
eve of little georgie’s death,
and he
just pours himself another
drink
and looks right through me
wants
to talk about love but
he’s
not drunk enough
to get
the words out
talks
about self-hatred instead
and on
this, at least, we agree
over
this, at least, we can share
a meal
of rancid meat and
splintered
bones
a feast
for the jackals we
suspect
we’ve become
No comments:
Post a Comment