I listened and went along
with the delicate subversion.
Another version of the story
quickly erupted from the exhaust pipe
of a ’92 Buick careening over an embankment.
I get it, it’s like I’m something inadequate.
Yesterday glazes the mirror with apologies.
A camera preserves its forgeries.
In the engorged moonlight,
I can hear my thoughts whispering
amongst themselves, and I wonder
if they’re conspiring against me.
I’m positively perspiring!
Siring a mire masked in blue perfumes,
the taste of tombstones on my tongue.
A collapsed lung would offer better shelter
than this sweltering apartment.
I listened and went along…
Strong weed and stronger nausea,
take my hand please, before my hand takes me
on a backward flight over a land
of placid distraction that conceals
destruction in its belly.
Somehow, I can smell the fever…