Blunt Force Trauma

Down here in hell,
the first plane, our eyes
open unblinkingly, but wet
with verbs subjunctive
one’s tongue suffices
for pedestrian things—
its automatic motor
mouths what yawning
eyes interpret—
but we are drawing out from
the chalk drawings of our
former species colours
when we paint our
BLUNT FORCE
T R A U M A
our superlative joys and
N A R R O W
M I S S E S
and heavenward gazing
we wait for fluency in
our native language,
for holy, unblooded
converse in the
A N G E L ‘ S
A L G E B R A
—Satan’s wit—
God hear us here in
Gehenna.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

 

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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