The Horror
The monster's mouth is giant,
yet invisible,
with teeth crushing us daily
until we call it living.
The monster is careful
to eat politely though:
no elbows on the table,
counting its chews,
and gingerly spreads its salt
because its dead parents
believed a clean floor
the best sort of love.
But the monster never even looked
as it swallowed us,
instead it sighed
at eating alone again.
Music Turned Up So Loud You Know No One Is Listening
No one will love you
the way Leonard Cohen could,
not even me,
but he's dead now,
so what does that leave?
All the lovers must sing
a final song, and the beloved
bed down with the belief
in the lie of forever,
if they're lucky.
No one will love you
after the worst funeral
of your life, like that one
person, who stood next to you
and held your hand,
but that isn't the passion
that smokes cigarettes
and writes love poems at 3 AM,
among closed curtains,
keeping you safe from yourself.
All the lovers must sing,
even if it's out of tune on a Tuesday,
when you dropped
your only Leonard Cohen CD
and expected someone else to pick it up.
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