Struck by lighting on the way to Damascus
it's still too early for planned obsolescence.
My demon wishes for a ten-point bulletin
but there is no plan for the end of summer
And poetry yields no safe refuge for us
maybe it never did. We wanted to drink deeply
and we deeply drank.
The wind smells trite now, unholy
mounds of fish guts and watermelon plastic
rot happily before my door
Are we the roaches, or are we caretakers?
About the Creator
M.
Half-time writer, all time joker. M. Maponi specializes in speculative fiction, and speculates on the best way to get his shit together.
Author of "Reality and Contagion" and "Consultancy Blues"
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