this cursed birth-
day, the name
of he who thinks
it’s likely love
is never forever.
Into this unmiti-
gated thirst more
out of hand than
a glass of gravel,
curse only love
and its glasses
(the shame of it
all), our tragic
hero, who thinks
in such belated
terms. Onward
yet, mastermind!
Pursue the razing
of its name from
its very tongue.
Bleep the muscled
one-night stand
what scrambled
its pitiful brain
in an impressive
first round.
Pity it’s so
disheveled
still, and
all in such
a swoop, nay,
verily, that it
was too tired
for dim sum.
And therefore
more than this
it’ll never see.
