Hour Twelve

How do I like the view, you ask?

The lake is dead water

the moon a glory-hole cut in the sky’s canopy

through which the gods fuck us,

and speaking of fucks, I have none left to spare.

Behind my breastbone is a toxic shudder

I can’t tell if it’s panic, rage,

or mere indifference made larger-than-life,

but I want to take this jacked-up Jeep and drive it up the ass

of everything that once made me human.

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