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Updated: Mar 17, 2022

In twos and threes

They arrived in their leisure,

entering the wispy ring

of moldy mattresses, bottles o’ booze

& shadow seizures

through the trees. These

Friday afternoon rendezvous

of trailer park pixies

& goblin kings,

all fledglings in the art of fashionably dying.

Their ancestors were slaves t’pretense

& toil, and they, themselves

the antagonizing plot twist

of Life’s farce they wished to foil:

Neurotic since the cradle,

peaceful postmortem,

fleeing the fatal

clutches of boredom

w/ their teenage hearts beat, beat, beatin’

in a Halloween rage.

They gladly drank from the river of Lethe,

longing for the warm womb plunge

of a Dionysian rebirth

t’feel again the skin of this earth

& the chilled loom of the Chindis

to cease, erased…

& the flowers of the mind to blossom,


New revelations, new sensations,

new sounds! Metanoias

wherein the hyacinths know no bounds!

- Hallucination, horror, haven: that holy menage a trois –

Self-scalping the ancient, gray labyrinth

like mad electric-afro surgeons

drawn to the allure of what fantastic

new Frankenstein they could burgeon

in their own image.

O those beautiful Bohemian hemorrhages…

The iron drip… The slip

from Mother’s hand to the Other Side…

a poet’s parricide… childhood’s suicide…

Each the severing of a bored tongue

too long tied & implored

t’pray for pearls.

They must kill themselves to feel alive.

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