Won’t it be great when we’re all dead
and zombieing around.
everything will be like Prom
except with eating people instead of gowns
and maybe shotguns and survivors
instead of corsages.
And of course all that awkward guilt
about my dancing abilities will be
turned into gnawing hunger
instead of gnawing shame.
The qualities unburdened by any clear
critical stance make me blur
with distinction. Healthy trumpets
wake the dead again. I’m cloying.
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