philharmonic casket
poison bucket with lavish plume
it’s not my hate (i’ve only love to give)
now, will you give me back my bullets?
i’m painting an empty gesture in broad strokes.
it’s opulent;
it’s Divine;
it’s God’s magnificent turd
(but which God?)
these leavings reveal so little about their maker
or perhaps it’s only my glasses
that have given up
the frames are still holding up fairly well
it’s possible there are things
i’d rather not have seen anyway
it would seem my nails are now biting me