When plague grips a grand city in its pitch and airless
fist, flames bore holes in flesh that the rats sing
The world’s gone mad at the wheel
While bees and seas soar for bloom, germs and chaos
Straining against reorder.
lips two wild pulsing fish
swift bubbles of nothing
moaned into the air’s
Worst I had to deal with, well, I suppose that time my son was shut in a padded room and shit himself at the special needs school. He was 13 and having one helluva wiring crisis. I got called to come get him after he graffitied his feces across white walls.