| Ragged robbins for the curtain call
|
| Wrapped in ribbons on the trailer door
|
| Carved initials in a concrete footstall
|
| On the imitation marble floor
|
| We’re the boxtop admissions and their throwaways,
|
| Strewn across tobacco roads
|
| With their wormwood shots and their snake oil plots
|
| Drunk sheepshank con men and their sycophants
|
| And I often wonder if I’ve already died
|
| Out at elbows by the encore
|
| But there’s a citadel inside
|
| Where I’ll go and shape my heart like yours,
|
| As you shape yours like mine
|
| Where we’re the spiraling arms of all galaxies
|
| And we’re the microscopic sand
|
| Suffering from delusions of ungrandeur on middling display
|
| Beside the Cardiff giant with the alabaster eyes
|
| I often wonder if I’ve already died,
|
| Or if the 'I' is an unintelligible lie
|
| Off we flew like swarms of hornets
|
| 'Woken up' from winter’s rest
|
| To colonize with plastic pulp
|
| Our neighbor’s perfect paper nest
|
| While all year round potter wasp
|
| Has buzzed her unhinged song
|
| You can hear its creaking in our floorboards
|
| Megalomania’s only mania if you’re wrong |