written by: Eoghan Lyng
A capricious tray is etched-
Once within the reach of it-
It isn’t, isn’t the case
But it is, it is the case
An emergency, have we found-
Calves, cutways, sitting in an editing suite-
Stooping in the corners of a dying laugh…
..Or so it seems a laugh.
Ha ha ha -have nots itching in a corner-
Biscuits covered on a tray, slaughtered-
There’s an empty chair, he once sat there-
His hat is there, flattened out. Sad sits the hat.
Smokes are never the same. They seem, well-
— Well, dreamed, less dreamed. Less smoked
But I will wear his hat. Ha, it fits!
Does it? Will it? Could it? Should it?
-Etchings are never so fetching, itching at hairs-
Beware him. Be wary of him. Take care of him.
He won’t take care of himself, but he will.
Nicotine patches uneasily aced in a runround
Groundings asking him for a sexless friendship…
Why? High? Might I interject? Pray, ask to interject!
Hostages held havered harangued in a horseslaughtered shed.
-He’s been force-fed, so said he. It’s tyranny.
Weeping willows wallows welcome weaved, make believes
Easier to please me, pleased with the disease we’ve created.
He’s gone. He’s gone.
Death is never far or ever hard- but it’s far from the truth, and sometimes a laugh.
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