You,
you slaughtered methaphors in ditches
Turned revolving souls into stomping flats
I go to morgues
On Monday mornings
to check what happened during rest
Who’s god is turning into ashes
What mother let a womb succumb
Who jogged to sun
Instead of loving
Who went all-in with dreams
Losing to barren virgins
Deal after deal
Hand after hand
Who has the last breath
How is he gonna let it go
Outside,
Between the coitus & the spit
The curb grew wallish
Tremendous balls of eunuchs at harem’s gate
And every baby sliding through labia minora screaming: just listen!
‘rehearseless, in stage 4
At curtain call’
You,
You,
fucking dilettantes’