AB ( / )

In The Tv, From The Fridge

a languid symphony
pounds a picture
next to music
into his vision.
it says:
never cook with death,
the smell drives
madmen to tell lies.
somewhere someone
else whispers
this boy can never count
on roses...
like the madmen,
they're unpredictable in winter
and last just as long.
he doesn't feel like a madman
he's just barely tasting this winter
of stale potato chips
and canned orange soda
the only thing he tastes now
is the incessant buzz
of missing broadcasting
he knows he shouldn't be fooled-
it's better than the
mean flicker of the flourescents
in the interrogation room
and a stomachache.
he surfaces briefly
with the meaning of life-
'scuse me mister,
can you tell him what it's like
to be rich? ?
but he's too old
for those carnival dreams.
he keeps his mind on the roses

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