post-post boosterism undone

a hapless haptic shadow
infinite dashed lines
funk seeps in through puncture holes
won the night and lost ourselves
gloom at the peripheries
as fireflies streak the darkness

the darkness harkens headfuls
of childhood disjecta loosed
our voices freeze in the night
sound iced in our throats
a pall of smothered silence

there are some good days
when voices of exile bray —

the start is the end
the mournful rumble we hear
widens a crack in our souls

What I’m Reading:

And these days I can no longer find any relief from my house’s infestation of men by fleeing outside because other men, distant men, men who are growing fat on their own cruelty, are making the sky collapse on our heads; every day the sky comes a bit closer, oppressive, so low in some places that it has been swallowing people up out of their lives.

— Lauren Groff / “Mother of Men”