The Park at 5

This brown inflatable cross gone bent with mucky heat

Of the ghost train’s cackle 
of skull in bad paintjob peeling

Machine beast beats

all brassneck pneuma fuckery 

Pedalo swans circle slow unmagical invented pool

When all is said and done all is said and done

picture ink shtick reçue
Is there any sort in the world with no tattoo?

Coldish

Be as ghosts to one another.

It’s winter officially. This is ghost season.

There’s no place to fuck without dying from the cold.

The fish are infected with ice and sleeping in the pond. They dream of human extinction.

All these sounds I make instead of words rile you.

It isn’t a joke, you say. Then you laugh.

You put your finger in my mouth and we’re frozen together.

We'll be married until the robins and the thrushes stop dying.