from a couch, short of happiness

elephant ears rested on trampled ground

the final sound was francis claiming he had won

dust swirl storms gathered around his boots shuffling hesitantly to meet the dead he never knew in life acting as if he understood the majestic mark indelibly placed on beating hearts whose size and race never mattered, until we ran out of sport, got sick of feeding one another to the lions, bloated, we’ve killed enough of our own

everything hunted just wants to be left alone, the piled up platitudes explaining away ignorant displays of powder packed pipes rattling off rounds into spun out desert dwellers just hoping for something sweet before they die, it’s coming to an end

oh, that’s dessert

you’ll get your ‘just’ ones

maybe two

if the feeling of every fucking insufficient bounced-check intelligence fund deficit of a human forgets to breath today

we would only be so lucky

could we

melt down their trust funds and figure a way to feed the few left over after the blue sky blew the sky to earth confusing people to death


dying due to the inability to understand change

the elephants were playing possum

francis didn’t want him anyway

we all walked away

less confused

murdered by all those who observed

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