A new wing of the Romantic school

A friend of mine died of a broken heart.
The government pried a metal slug
out of his chest. I wonder if his mother
was allowed to keep it or if it glistened.
An aesthetic must have met him then
in that apartment he rented with his
scholarship money. He found truth
and beauty, cockney things them,
in baggies and white boys too wealthy
for their health. The universe glanced
away, I’m sure, as he did: all the dead
philosophers speak in backward tongues
to him lying sideways, sexy them, like him.
All the proof one needs of our heritage,
from sparse savannah, from infested jungle,
lies in how talented young people are
at destroying themselves ever earnestly.


~ by Jeremy on June 14, 2013.

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