Day 1219

…ain’t that poetry?

Stringing slurs together

in new

and illegible


Ain’t that poetry?

only a piccolo and

greying sense of entitlement

to accompany?

Ain’t that poetry?

when half empty rooms

sit in silence

pretending your every wheeze

is somehow rapture

their cyclical sighs

desperate to not be left behind

not getting that

there’s nothing to get

Ain’t that poetry?

Ogling children

describing in sweating detail

the sacred bloom

As if your hairy knuckles are entitled still to softness

because you fantasize about murdering those

with more than you

Ain’t that poetry?


Ain’t it?…


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