This is the song
this is the song
this is the song
this is the song
this is the song
about the death you won't have to die
for the people who aren't required to be people
for the aisles mopped by morons
with the hair of morons
between the pickled morons
in the moron morning
picking idiot pockets
and arresting itself with hungry police
as the fleshy current rises toward the ceiling
this is the song
this is the song of the everyone
channeling through the shrunken driveways
standing stunned at a window
while the familiar blood eats meals inside
at the blood table with the blood stories on the wall
going sane while the staring outside turns into a human.
This is the song you won't have to sing
to the people who won't have to listen to it
to be smacked flat in the pages of a book you won't read
while the orange turns to pink in hazy near-nothingness
while the children turn into dandruff
on the grassy downslope.
This is the song
for the hardly songlike
disintegrations
and the forms that seethe out of them
like a fleet of tadpoles
in a lifted pond.
This is a song for the horizon that becomes a landscape
when the landscape drops out from under it.