by Matt Nagin
Artwork, “Young boy big dreams” by Nico Amortegui
I’m sick of the moon hanging low; dopey weathermen foaming with
apocalypse; stars mangling my throat and dinosaurs getting caught in
recalcitrant prisms of misunderstanding.
I’m sick. Of the performance, the stage; fighting restlessly to assert myself;
attempting to resurrect a mirage; I’m sick of the universe spinning backwards
and nights entering the abyss as dreadful androids obtain pyrrhic victories.
I’m sick of catering to half-men; sick of the envelope of desperation; pundits
blaming others for flags that have fallen; an urban hell; dolts running
frantically across the same floorboards.
I’m sick of struggling to rid myself of the canyons of darkness inside.