Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Beauty Ruins

Thanks for the lovely bloodbath, and for thinking big.
Our bottom line is in stitches. I'm in hysterics over here;
dressed like a recommended bus, the good sport will be here anon
with banjo on the brain. You may go at any time. Strike that—

I have seen a chyron administer a fine bit of cruelty
to save face during peacetime, that notorious season.
The clergy barely noticed

when their own bare legs went missing; the ransom note was blank
yet persuasive. It served as a warning not to appear
in other people's dreams without a bachelor's doggerel.
Accordingly, the economy's expulsive growth is loath
to be alone with my mustard. I never catch up.

Instead I relax into a calamity of spacetime continuity
all comers agree on—the diagnosis that sours us
on aurora borealis. But check it out:
I nonplussed a man in Reno
just to watch him get confused, not unfazed.

It fell to a buttering flame to tell us more
of lovers and their lawyers lying down in darkness,
bonding over technology. There's no one left to thaw out
of auld acquaintance; observe the hospitals, overflowing.

No comments:

Post a Comment