maybe its the fruit flys

and the way they circle

and perch on my

drinking glass

like buzzards

on a cliff

 

or maybe

its the moths

and the way

they fly into the light

and fall dead

 

or maybe

its the sound of a baby continuing

to wail for its mamma

in the abandoned

house next door

where the homeless squat

among the needles and empties

 

or maybe

its just sunday nite

looking at the polaroids

and rolling over

on our bed

listening to the upstairs neighbor

yelping through a fuck

 

but i think

maybe hitler had it rite

when

he built his bunker

to hide away

with his virgin wife

and offing themselves

when the world at war

got too close

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