The Paralyzed Apocalypse: A Poem

Our posit on a curled hook,
hanging straight like slaughtered beef
in lockers of our chosen chill.
Our sins and organs all contained.
The cows had no choice.
And I lament our still lives
on their way to death.
We shut down music
in the mid-stream of a song.
(Unwind, is all) we often say.
Blackouts grow as comfortable
as cool pillows licking chins.
Pouring our demise like tea.
Sleuth we think it is, it ain't.
Pain's video, a tape to play another hour.
Drowning torch that might have
led us through these caves,
sorted gem from pressing dark.
We paralyze apocalypse.

I resent this shape, demolished dream.
Stuff pages down a toilet's mouth;
paper floats despite the flush.
Art's overflow is disappointment on a rage.
Importune and fetid in its honesty.
Can mallets swing at nothingness,
strike some unalloyed delight?
I drag you through these syllables
hoping for askance to take
as palsied legs just pray for steps
beyond a body's aptitude.
Strip frosting from nice petit fours,
discovering the dry square,
familiar parch like morning eggs
common in their tragedies.
Can silence be a verb that bites?
Can blood ferment because of booze?
Sleuth we think it is, it ain't.
Thwarted by corks, carried by beer
to some assumed falsetto dawn.

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