Black Coffin

OK, Sherman, set the wayback machine for 2001, when I decided that my poetry didn't entirely suck.


This:
This is an aggregation.
An amalgamation.
A congregation,
A conglomeration, an estimation of the
trepidation.
You:
You are an imbecility.
A facility for the anti-
amiability. Amicability.
It becomes:
A Disastorability for
Brandability. To Intractability.
So let us have:
Insinuation. Insulation for our
Nation of Calculation, Recalcitration, Fornication.
We:
As a people.
As a person.
As a whole being.
Insipid Insipid Insipid.
Stupid uneducated no effect having promiscuous
silly little worms of a blood beating fuck-up as
a person.
Annihilation.
Infarcication.
Truncation.
We die:
We cough sputter weep for our forefathers cry
for our descendants and all of us I mean
Every
Fucking
One of us
lets go of this too real world to
Meet the not too calm and all
too cold world of a
Nailed
Down
Black
Lacquer
Coffin
DEAD.
Amen, brother.
A-fuckin-men.


Black Coffin by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.