go swingin’

brutal sameness
unearned arrogance.

brutal sameness
and the beat of
brutal
failed
things
in my head.

And these men on corners
all have dogs
and a greenish
glow,
and I think of Bobby the bartender,
his hairline retreating
into ponytail,
him doling out shots,
running mad
into the Saturday
night Avenue traffic,
dying there
dying with no one holding his hand
dying
from those
brutal
failed
things
beating in  his head.

And the robots are loose,
the robots run loud,
they scream
be yourself
while their
mechanized hearts
measure you
and find you
INEVITABLE.

It’s half past seven
and my soul’s in
a body cast,
it’s half past seven
and the id’s
are there,
kind of like I
pictured the walking
fish to be:
triangle teeth bared,
hands stretched out front
and grabbing for
more, more.

The problem is
I’ve seen this
more
that you covet
and I can tell you
the price-tag
is a bastard.
 

 

 

 

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