I prop my
mouth up
lifting dewlaps
I cram teeth into corners
I auto-tune screams
until
the blood-curdling sounds like
lyrical laughter
–no mean trick–
and my far away eyes
grow more distant by the day
masquerading as de rigueur
disinterest
–I’m not taking a selfie after all!
all true expression
dead
(along
with him)
farther than 6 feet under
–gone
. . . .disintegrated. . . .
replaced by a
“that’s acceptable”
caricature
“that’ll do pig”
in peep’s clothing
in a society
where no one
likes a
grumpy Gus, least of all…Gus
and when no one
loves
— in turn
no one is loved
and all that remains is this race to the finish line
festooned in
cheese mirage
surrounded by vermin
(lab and pet)
and a few less nippy rats, as well
from cubby hole
to content
to chaos
to coffin
–where at last
the make believe
ceases,
the guns stop echoing
the crowd stops surging
and fear founded
and faced
–dies.
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