Insistence. Sliver
of a moon flung
into the sky while
clipping a fingernail.
Turns a blah dusk
beautiful. You feel
it right here. [Press
hand to beat’s insist
ence; persistence.]
Someday my day
will come. And the
sun, from heaven
can be heard scream
ing like a cauldron oft
chapped children. Oh.
He’s merging diverge
nces. Is this okay? It
is love that doesn’t an
swer the question. Water.
We want water. This
resistance too dim to
refocus is no bliss.
The hiss of steam
that risks reaching
the sun. Which
wishes with malice
that it were a palace
filled with snow. Yo,
a snow palace tosses
a couple of balls to
make of the moon
a snow-moon. Oh,
tiny lunar man within,
of ice (of ice) your aortal
orbit will mean my demise,
it must end (it must end).
Upon what magic do you
depend? Could you, please,
might you instead, find in
your tiny green heart an
escape mechanism, an
off-ramp? Can you hear
me, my snowman? With
what incantation might
you be knocked off your
course. Make your way
to my soul, I insist (with
insistence), even though
I’m aware what a fool I
am doing so. Who am I,
you might ask, to relay
such an order? Just an
overgrown immature
earthling, in fact, who
shall lie on this sword
just to prove his exist
ence. How might he
bargain his way out
of this headlong rush
into the morgue’s
freezer? But it
is no use,
his memory,
useless, is too
slow to unbury
his one winning chip:
“Ah, when I’m a cadaver,
it’s doomsday for all of us.”
Who knew what a sweet pleas
ure that freezing could be?
We want water. This
resistance too dim to
refocus is no bliss.
The hiss of steam
that risks reaching
the sun. Which
wishes with malice
that it were a palace
filled with snow. Yo,
a snow palace tosses
a couple of balls to
make of the moon
a snow-moon. Oh,
tiny lunar man within,
of ice (of ice) your aortal
orbit will mean my demise,
it must end (it must end).
Upon what magic do you
depend? Could you, please,
might you instead, find in
your tiny green heart an
escape mechanism, an
off-ramp? Can you hear
me, my snowman? With
what incantation might
you be knocked off your
course. Make your way
to my soul, I insist (with
insistence), even though
I’m aware what a fool I
am doing so. Who am I,
you might ask, to relay
such an order? Just an
overgrown immature
earthling, in fact, who
shall lie on this sword
just to prove his exist
ence. How might he
bargain his way out
of this headlong rush
into the morgue’s
freezer? But it
is no use,
his memory,
useless, is too
slow to unbury
his one winning chip:
“Ah, when I’m a cadaver,
it’s doomsday for all of us.”
Who knew what a sweet pleas
ure that freezing could be?
