fecal city, do you cradle a corpse
by Pasha Satara
somewhere in your sewer depths? you might hold
the bones of one who loved & played for me.
i cross the river quickly to escape
your smoke & dirty underwear, your smoke
& the scratchy train tracks running through like veins.
even as you nod at me your leaves fall & rotate in the water,
turning me into the proverbial nuclear winter,
a paradox of rigidity with a cold burn.
roxy, see if you can get him on the phone.
roxy, i tell you true, wet panties & desire
will not light the way.
these symbols look a lot like confusion.
he doesn't feel i have enough support,
that i should hold hands more at bedtime.
read your books & take your medicine.
try not to sleep your life away.
roxy, why do we always end up
at the end?