outside the nightclub he dreams of
his brother strumming his guitar, on that
street corner in florida, filaments of light
playing upon the peter pan face of
someone just too ethereal for
the disappointments of this rusty
earth. he's a different way, though, you
can tell in the darkness of his brow
and the scowling of those
translucent cellophane eyes. when
he cries his distress will be
televised live to forty million people
who watch the festering remains of
Hollywood waste products decades
in the making not bothering
to feel much of anything, really...
YOU ARE READING
please don't die
شِعرafter dark beautiful things grow and fester, kissing your mouth, eviscerating your insides.
