Some days, on a day like this,
I feel the coarse stuffing coming out
of my side and torn places like
tissues someone’s wept in.
Whenever I look there’s a
miserable offstage harlequin
sharpening his knife,
looking for his wife.
I know I could kill him
just by laughing at his jokes,
but I don’t want another body floating
in the false-blue pool in the backyard.
Days like these are like a long Unseen,
a test with no answers, taken endlessly.
I would go out but the streets are full of
pretty girls striding with a masculine gait,
aggression oozing from each drop-dead pore:
I’d kiss you but I’d cut myself!
So, it’s another shitty day in Paradise
where even the flowers smell of nothing
and great causeways of silence cross
the still lagoons of afternoons.
I will offer my ghost a drink but not a chair
for ghosts don’t…
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