elegy

something i dont remember popped up in the form of a futile poem;
some insipid diction maligned with a sociopath's cunning
and a pedant's flourish, telling you about my sickness,
the sickness of expecting consolation.

so i shed this paltry disguise;
the firmament of the myopic scientist,
the numerology of the bureucrat,
the mysticism of the politician.

i ruined my articulation for the sake of a highball glass,
and I ruined my health for the sake of individuality.

flourishes of courage like rose petals in the arctic,
articles of love in the fascist newspaper,
dandelion wisps in the gangrene sky,
these are what I hold on to in notebooks,
these are why I have no photo albums.

bury me in the ancient waste like any old object,
for i am object enough for you, say nothing
like you have said nothing for those before me
that you fragmented with control's power
and thus i give the fragments back to you:
laughter in the hospital, a magenta leaf
upon a pub table, and some wine stains
on the funeral suit.