Something perverted in me
loves these dire times
when hyperbole is impossible.
Where I can be delirious -
as if my darkest desires
are about to come true;
pretend all is black or white
and be rewarded
for ignoring the gray.
Hyperventilate with rage;
spit darts in eyes and ears
and face no consequences.
Cry out for the holocaust;
crave the apocalypse;
pursue eschatology
with the crazed fervor
of an indignant desert prophet.
Be breathless -
full of passionate intensity,
because this is the new abnormal
that has been happening
for thousands of years.
And tomorrow,
I will wake
and do it all again,
because some day
I'll be right.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in- Chief
First published in Door is a Jar Literary Magazine
Like this:
Like Loading...
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 