he was a disease on us.
we wondered, how can we rid
the world of this
illness. in stolen places,
we swabbed him into a dish and
found no cure. he grew; he turned into a dance concert, and
by raging lights and deafening sound,
flowers burst and died.
when confronted, he claimed
we’re all infected. it’s just the way things are. we
will all wear off onto each other, and that’s
both good and bad. there’s no fucking cure for the
shitstorm that is
humanity. so fucking dance and get over yourselves.
disease is beautiful.
he set fire to buildings. built bombs of beauty and vengeance.
he grew out of the dish and overflowed,
stood naked on a mountain and
there was no sigh of relief. no better world.
we hung our heads and read the mail.
heavy on the two for one sales, and
yes, we threw away the bills
and took some drugs that
didn’t really help.
signs of the end, embedded within and around.
around, and yes,