It’s Sunday morning,
m o t h e r f u c k e r.
Yes, I am awake,
are you? Do you
hear that? I can.
I hear the birds
singing their shitty
songs of beauty,
their odes
to the virtue of
fucking about,
breasted warbles
unclipped wings.
Fuck about.
I am awake and I
can count deaths,
in its smell,
the number of
sirens that pass,
all blue
among the out
growths of the
new season.
To be precise, it’s
O, here comes
the wahmbulance.
But the fail sun is up
m o t h e r f u c k e r,
on its name day,
with all its restless
feelings, arrival,
and nowhere
to put them.
When it’s up,
know it’s up.
Cos it’s still
going up
each day,
even though
the count
is too low.
Don’t underestimate,
power, the fail sun,
the lies of the rich.
How to fuck
around and
wear a halo.
Put all your
feelings
in the sun’s pockets.
I’ve been thinking
about tying
a rope around you:
O, the blonde son,
pull you in to
the earth, take
you under, circling
each of the
seven rivers,
the dead, we could
recite it in a song
all together,
in the old tongue,
mostly, costly,
it’d be so earthly,
so class, so dashing
this catastrophe,
all the costs
and the expense.
How every day
it keeps going
up, with no
end to sight.
I am staring
right at you,
waiting.