it's these bodies

Ron Androla

these rotten grape-skin bags full of bloody ocean banging into sharp days, thirsty serrations
of weeks
finding death impossibly not a dream, beginning with dreams, brains burning birds fluttering into rustle of molecular ash, flaking like billion year implosion
life giggles about tickling christ's ribs with reality
with the very shit we're stuck with
insurmountable fuck from physical futures, so what
there are terrible assholes on this planet who outlive all of history, fist-fucking
our terminal guts
who in the hell wants poetry now, the dreamless language of silence
fire is eating thru you, quickly
igniting blood, curving sense beneath a speckled sky, expanding
past

 

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