there is a parallel memory of a festival and i’m so happy i’m sick
it’s half a dream, half-eaten ghost, divine radiation daydreaming
summertime fever. we shake our heads, play pretend that it’s
not real, chemicals not sugar, because the softness of sunday is
always so much less appealing. predictable defenses, the same
noise. we celebrate our pyrrhic immortality absent minded, the
funeral party. both crusher and creator and pleasant heaviness.
my favorite coffin is the grass, my favorite god is my
gentle friend, poisoned and pretty.