the lost dinners beneath our feet
that crunch
in their clumsy fragments
defeatist: it’s all over
that blood-red sun is a rain
storm stuck on repeat and
it does so much
more for my skin
don’t look at me with those
dull, white eyes, and whistle
through crustaceans
your old, white song
forgive the chaos you’ve railed
against and been soundly ignored
i can’t speak for these shells
of men beside me but I’m sorry
Vast Imbecility 