Dance in the dark. Laugh.
Find service some place.
Walk in the park. Forget theology.
Have courage without faith.
Pray for rain. Live out mythology.
Act in grace.
The family portrait sits on the shelf
next to the black-and-white ancestor,
and I stitch myself
together all over again
and make myself
a five-year plan
to stay cool -
put a pin-board up where I can see it
and skewer happiness
with multicoloured plastics.
Come one, come all, angelic fiends,
go out with a bang.
One moment, please...
In a way that's not quite human
and a means of getting by...
It's too late. No time to evacuate.
Not done and dusted by deadline.
No one really needs to know how it works,
minimum viable product of my parents
at the meeting point of word and world.
Connect the dots and picture the worst.
I don't want to hear any more.
We've come to the end of our tether,
and no more than three times a day,
because fertility is death,
wash it all away:
the rate is limited
at which
the universe tears apart.
Poem and original by AlmightyMelon. Image created using the poem as prompt by dalle3.