this is a call to arms.
this an arm to call
you.
why, your cherub arms raised high.
oh, those fake footsteps I’ve felt.
you, the triple crown,
my London Bridge
falling down.
I twisted a paperclip the whole time I was with you.
now it kind of looks like a man praying
in the chrome coated anorexic future.
I am sitting next to a heater; repeat ad nauseum,
which means say over and over until it makes you sick.
I don’t understand why people drop their little latin phrases.
is it their desire for the tiny taste of skulls on their breath?
Yoric spoke English all his death.
he is carving out a window in the back of my skull
and installing stained glass,
but what’s it for?
every church looks the same to me.