a remote with dead batteries

deep in the throes
of another episode
in a series
of hellishly episodic
angellic hunger pangs
crawling across
broken promises of
forever
for a night
for a weekend
forsaken
taken as the fool
he portrays effortlessly
on television shows
broadcast on inverted
satellite arrays
beaming along the hollow
birdbone skeleton
of exceptional
insufficiency

there are times when i feel
as if i could buckle under the
weight of this endless fucking
sorrow, willingly drown, self
immolate on an ocean of unshed
tears

that’s all

there are times when i feel the
coarse threads around my throat
like a lover’s embrace and long
to kick out the chair, a pinata
filled with sugar free memories

the rest of it
is spent
writing manically
whispering all
of my love
to the woman
with wildflowers
in her smile

she understands
my sad
and loves me
despite me being
me.

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