I Have No Room for Dinosaurs in My Afterlife
Yours, in particular, have distended gums
that break out into several costumed villains.
I've had enough of mortality. Like liver transplants
and runs in the stockings. Do you remember Cincinnati?
Of course, you don't. You were at that pay phone
for hours. You believed you were dying.
You made me say velociraptor ninety-nine times—
at first slowly then faster—to prove you trusted
me to be there once it's your time to die.
That's the afterlife I've had in mind ever since I tried
to grow floating restaurants on my scabs.
Don't get strange ideas now. I know about your ideas,
like dysentery and duct tape for the aged.
You call them your plastic brontosaurs
with the Modigliani neck as if a different name
could've made a difference to Dr. Guillotin's
humanity project. From the start, not even God
understood what it meant to be extinct.
|Copyright © 1999-2018 Juked|