Friday, March 08, 2024

DIES IRAE DIES ILLA


on that day
when everything is thrown
into the fire 
and the sky is red
like a livid patch of psoriatic skin

and rivers are acrid
turgid 
and grumbling
like a
sweaty drunk

and the air itself is 
like a bowl
of poisoned
frijoles

and you are small
and alone
like a gerbil
in the rain

you will remember 
these similes
and say 
goddamn man
Thomas called it








No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.