- Published on Thursday, 16 January 2014 00:46
by Franklin K.R. Cline
Never have I ever had a MySpace
account; the stars are sagging towards cop cars
slinking along. Nothing to see
here. Face it:
you owe more than you got to the bars
that don’t let you in any more, anyway.
Fuck it, pocket a 3 Musketeers from
the Kum & Go. They have it coming;
eat up. Yolo. So low. I think you’re dumb:
prove me right, hop online and post nudes all
night. Fuck it. Make rap music loud,
a triple, chug and puke and rally. Fall
is ending, the stars droop like leaves, divine
intervention intervening to the end.
Take all you can before this all is then.
So: winter, no further summer echo,
barely sun. So: inside, lost remotes, house
slippers, sweatpants. So: fake warmth, thickness. So:
false comfort, where’s the sky, where did my mouth
go oh here under the scarf, steamy drinks,
burnt lips. So: irascible, carols down
the block, little red and green lights make blinks
at our cold and tired eyes. So: around
the house we get quieter, and the meat
we started to cook gets forgotten, burnt.
So: smoke. So: fire. So: we could not eat,
that was all we had. So: hunger, we learnt
nothing. So: soon spring’s green splash across our
lawn, springing up from the snow. So now dour.
Franklin K.R. Cline’s work has been published in Beecher's, The Chariton Review,
Matter: A Journal of Political Poetry, and is forthcoming from B O D Y and
Rabbit Catastrophe Review. He lives in Kalamazoo, MI, with his fiancee, author Rachel Kincaid.