Tommy Wiseaude

You god,

more or less parable. A generator

silvering the screen

 

beyond good sight. A dog

in the flower shop

of life. Who aren’t you,

 

harnesser of catastrophes absurd

and cerebral.

Man versus nature versus

 

the audience. I too am weary

of roots. Tired of poetry in its slick

unfolding. I the gunk

 

and the passion. We both born

doubters of perfection. Why have faith

when I accept the art of it,

 

spontaneous as maggots emerging

from the flesh. Uncaring where

or how to exist.


Also by Hannah Cohen

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