Creativity Is the Slaughter of Angels
There’s hierarchy of ghosts in orbit of my empathy
As dream scenarios close in on morbid reductionism
Simple pleasures like not flossing, or tearing currency to bits
Smashing ukuleles over the headboard as you come
Like a toy locomotive chugging in a garage diorama
(Son, you were simply a design flaw in my rear-view mirror)
The fool is often a great thinker hiding behind a terminal disease
If the key don’t fit, you know where to find my dead parents
Translation: I can’t self-flagellate in their wedding bed anymore
Not my fault she overdosed on catnip after I announced:
Goddamn it to hell! Your drum solos are unlistenable
Just pave over the flower patch and install a basketball court already
I can still be nice to you while hating your guts
And btw, FYI
Designing the menu in consideration of your discerning palette
Won’t fly at the wake
.
Stink Eye Magazine 