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.


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