Those older cells

Or: The apoptosis prolongs itself

It is time for dues, for the destitute.
Pay up and fatten us or we’ll choke on you.
Count us you might as well count molecules.
Taught not polite company, neither speech,
not their bargains of it nor a come-hither
march our millions brag of, our millions
never once the dunce of a legion of leeches.

They sent the poorest drooling here, squire
of brainrot hired by the brokest street man,
they sent a billion cells to placate finally
this formula, deluded yes, of deadening poverty.
So hear me, I speak, if only in an elementary
cadence informed by who knows where my brain
has been, and hear me, fickle past, I am here.


~ by Jeremy on May 25, 2012.

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