SOMETHING INCESSANT,
UNENDING
Like how we tick. Cradle to
the grave. The dumbest things
to recall, who wants to listen
any longer? Some Grandma
who kept a gun, an old reverie
of Brooklyn paste, a dough
by which to make a pizza.
Lambs to infernal slaughter.
The disengaged first-love
of someone's daughter. Oh
yeah, how I treasure those
days the most.
No comments:
Post a Comment