What If There Are No Lovers Left After the Next Holocaust, & All Our Demons Rise Up Out of Our Bodies, & Our Flesh Needs to Learn How to Be Human All Over Again?

by Poetry

Two students of extinction; stumbling
directionless in the dark; hands reach –
the graze of skin – not warm, or cold,
but
       there

/one is deaf +
                       one is mute /

the world blinds them,
in dark halls behind
only their sins are there
to guide the way;

they learned to study their sins; dissecting
intimately with dulled memories; one
could not hear the screams – the other
could not scream
         at all

/ one tastes +
                       one is tasteless /

both are starving – one considers
consuming their sins, the other
knows how bitter they are to
the starving;
                      saltwater to a woman
dying in a drought.

Two students of Extinction; feeling
themselves in the other; more alone
when there are other universes
to
      consider

/ one has a stronger universe +
                                                    one is an unexploded star /

Both are victims of their delusions – one
drinks the darkness, gets drink-drunk; gone,
the other sleeps in black waters with
their mouth locked
their mouth barred,
                                                         no prisons in the dark – no bars,
no guilt & locks,
no preachers & stones,
no nuns & no steel.

They share their dreams apart; tearing
open only old wounds; no fresh scars
on the perfect – no fresh scars, now, on
the
        obscene

               / one is desperate to live +
                                                            one is desperate to die /

they move, desperate to be apart;
one is desperate to love, unconditionally;
the other – desperate to be loved,
in a courtroom as the judge’s
hammer plays;
                           no confessional booth
in the dark – no slow footsteps & no,
no crooked wheel come to save no souls;
in the dark;

/ one has no home +
                                  one is never going back /

Two students of extinction
failing to understand
how one little rock
could cause so much
& mean so little

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Carey Poet

On Passion

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Sinister bloody sexless thing blowing out of Market Street with a red ridden burlap sack and a blood iron hood – a sexless thing, I said, from the depths of darkest spring sidling up the side streets with a swing in his thigh obsessed thighs. Sidling into men, don’t...

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