I beg the doveTrice to stay and become the eternal moon that
will wane the teasing of a dozen sirens grinding under the
jack o'lantern night before I let these men devour, regurgitate,
and spit my soul on the curb, along with some expired part of themselves.
Turnt to the harlequin red that cockles
through manholes above nightclubs, I become,
it. The spores, the toady tongues,
the cinnamon liqueur, the first burn,
the etching of cardboard drying palates.
The itchiness of
foam, the end of time:
void of hunger,
the singularity. Trapped in the crash—
an infinity of rainbows collapsed in a skin well
of seraphic skim. We become bird-people and
dock our heads with elastic halos and
fly wistfully on leather wings, chained, in
puddles thicker than petroleum jelly as
the jester, the DJ, jams to Pitbull and
cackles to the mayhem of a thousand
undead arms bursting through the ass of night,
to the brief of an uglier disco, and to me,
the zombie lost in drool, looking for swan song in every lick.
The tune of a familiar family sitcom. Please find me before I marry
the malady that silences the bards who bellow on the curb of Time.