ghosted
“You all live once,” the app screamed, like Munch.
Filled bodies, slick and brickly
on the outside, hardened by days of burbled swiping
that scorched fingers with every ocular rotation around the sun.
“His inside flamed out soft,
his eternities now irrevocably cooled,”
she said, unmatching, in bed,
freedom falling from her fingers doused in ghost pepper hot.
Here’s How Gods Die
Apocalypse tapped his fingers
on the broken floating table,
and wondered
why people looked at him as if
studying stained glass.
He gave them books, and viruses,
drugs, poetry and song, even stems that stung.
He treasured beyond measure
the cost of those,
and the loss they masqueraded.
The requirements he absolved
them of, gluttons for his generational
success. Mad people
regaled their children,
eating their stories and spilling them out.
As his chair drifted away from the table,
he wondered if the years had been lengthier,
and the sky brighter,
if they all hadn’t died,
his life would have gone on any longer.
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