Nathan McCool/Mist of Melancholia
I’m real sick of all the normal talk in this town.
So dig this:
I stroll into a convenience store wild-eyed
as any nightmare; and I trade
a satchel of moirai eyes and could-be prophecies
for the cheapest, darkest beer I can pry
from the cooler’s scary fingers
at this late hour.
By the time I get home my heart’s bluebird
is already drowning.
-Just a damn lightweight these days. Or so my fates say.
As usual, the violin and the guitar have been into
another tuning fork fight over why the
power for the amp won’t come on.
And one of em popped a string before
cracking the other’s head.
It’ll get nursed with apologies splattered on
a pill-shaped pillow tonight while I
find the loneliest room in the house
to write a very long metaphor in story form
on the ethics and morality
of the mass acceptance of…
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