Sunday, 13 September 2015

Sunday Poem

The only thing left to deal with is our addiction to being killed by monsters.
What was all the hating over?
Christmas sneaks up like a rusty train.
Sit still and see if you can feel your cerebrospinal fluid pulsing.
Thoughts get in deep like drains and infections.
Sky isn’t just air anymore.
What if you die before the next Star Wars comes out?
Slush crunches like knuckles on day six.
Children imagine that at night their toys come to death and have tea parties.
We cling to our most useless things like grudges.
Solar powered forgetfulness.
Our habits are dollar stores that sell us our own plastic shit.
What if sickness is the only homunculus?
A tether runs from each free man to the satellite watching him.
Vaccines hang in their ampoules and dream of escape.
If there’s one lesson life has taught us all it’s to not don’t be a rock star.
Leaf through The Divine Sitcomedy.
Stats show SubQ RFID chips increase the frequency of worker implants.
A closet filled with wedding dresses filed in ascending size.
Which towel should I use if the hypothetical mess I need to clean is blood?
The mind can be a couch or the space under it and still come up with the same thing.
Artificial intelligence is a framed doctorate diploma.
The angry woman has her own reasons as well as her mother’s.
Beauty is a bunch of organized holes in the face.
I need to stop buying beer so I save enough money to do the things I want like buy beer.
Hang on a moment while I look at photos of this new spider.
Blowjobs are the Rome of everything after Rome.
Only desperate people actually believe they’ll be better by Thursday.
I’ve lost track of what favourite even means.
Smooth jazz is God’s peristaltic grumble.
What if we are flown like kites from a ground beyond the grave?
Restart the stop-time of this moment with trumpet blat and a James Brown scream.
Vice screws itself tight around your head.
The end happens when the poisons reach the children.
Wallpaper everything with Ebola maps.
How many times do I have to tell Paul Celan I’m sorry?
Joy lasts as long as distraction.
Listen to the background hum of the dishwasher.
What will happen when Santa figures out how to spread our sins among the whole family?
Everyone is one measure or another away from jackass.
This year I’m giving the gift of shutting the fuck up.
From Diversion (ECW, 2015) by George Murray

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