No Prose (Hope This Was Helpful!)

imagine: pale blue air balloon,

greying wave of corpse decay

organs swelling, cities sinking.

Earth, she weeps, sweeps mankind wombwards,

past etiquette to creature code—

just crust, chest-thumps, and angry boils

bursting hellfire-high, warming

hovering hands, soft and scarless,

hanging from the blue balloon,

raking through the greying wave.

they say mercy, they’re drowning!

mercy from the mountaintop,

they say I should strip and jump down,

say “I’ll drown with you,” probably.

that’s you at the end of times,

that’s you.

hope this was helpful!

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Das Magdeburger Einhorn

[Author’s Note: since WordPress is bad at formatting and I’m bad at coding, I’ve used images of for this poem in order to preserve its visual elements. Apologies for the amateur watermarks, or maybe not, because they’re definitely camp.]

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Why The Sausage Was Made (IV-VI)

IV. At the Polyhedral Pizzeria.

At the Polyhedral Pizzeria, the restaurant in the thrift store in the plaster Roman ruins on a B-movie budget: peeling back places, unfairly priced. We climb to our raised table and keep climbing our raised chairs, guessing how offensively valued the shelved vases are because we’ve waited hours for our food. Why then are the newcomers, the group of gurgling girls, comet-tailed by a silver platter— an order they’ve barely breathed? We’re impatient partners, you and I, salivating over the next table’s salad branes— balsamic and basil, peppered tomato and mozzarella strata. At the Polyhedral Pizzeria, displaced in time and space: confusing ascension with amputation.

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