Hold your breath
under the covers,
sing that song to yourself;
the one you never
sing in public.
The one where grays
sound transcendent orange and purple,
electrode home equity happytime and
graham crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Beyond damage,|
popping asphalt lungs,
crazed unfortunate
living on war bread and tailpipe oxygen.
Coffins eat hospital beds.
One funeral, ten.
Ten funerals to mass graves.
And their disinfected veins
have woven
into the bad angels
from nightmare fairy tales.
Sleep safe
under my gelding knife,
grenade.
Tomorrow a picture
of the sun
waits for you.
Stay in here,
where we wait
for the last dumb sucker
underpaid soldier
to die.
In here,
where time bends around you.
And where God is a
loving reactionary.
Don’t you dare dream
of outside.
Subscribe to Locust Review for as little as $1 a month.
Submit work to Locust Review by e-mailing us at locust.review@gmail.com.