and, even if it’s embarrassing, it’s still the gospel truth… I used to collect amnesias, but now, I’ve given all that up; gave the whole set back to her majesty, the queen
and now, there’s so much knowledge, it won’t even fit on the milk cartons
but, the juice is much more slippery, on the other side of town
if we’re really telling all, there are only sharks in the sea
each bite, delicious sadness, if you must know
let’s be totally clear about all of this,
we’ve grown far too close to one another to stop lying to ourselves, now
the party favor wasn’t punished for passing itself around, but for passing itself off as a thing all nailed down
let your hairless cats hang loose, and slip into something nauseating
it ruins the texture of the pudding, if you don’t bleed it out just right
so, dish out the starchy, fat parts of the story, so you can pick up a new one, down at your favorite food truck
give it all away before midnight, and the fifth is free
not to burst any bubbles, but the snowman isn’t actually made of lunar cheese
and, all that rain is fake; it’s really nothing more than water
the consigliere is only guessing, it’s all wild speculations; hopes that no one will notice, that they’ll all just play along
but, the wandering minstrel has lost his will to lie down
and, the troubadour is sharpening his boots for the dance
on the level, I will tell you that motor isn’t running, only because it’s all out of rocks and gum balls
if it’s time to get real, then we must suck it up and finally admit, all the Kewpie dolls are dying in the streets
the cobbler is high again; treatment didn’t take
the shoes are made of peaches, the boats all made of pearls and, the pears are getting fresh with the sailors in the saloon
apricot dandies dancing with apple cider cinder blocks in the twilight of everything that never happened thrice
rehearsing old headlines for all the latest, breaking news
the oysters are all full of shotgun pellets
all the nails are soggy, and the slugs are too tall
every day is carte blanche ice cream, caviar, and internal hemorrhaging
all the wild ponies are stuffed with loose rainbows, loose rainbows made of oil spills, and sprinkles of leprosy
the attraction is purely chemical, pure forever chemicals
today…
today was full of not dying
and a tentative lucidity
the significance of this is yet to be determined
it’s either a huge win, or it is entirely meaningless, or it’s the greatest loss of the entire war,
or it’s wholly imaginary, or it’s simply yet to be determined
all the bubbles are busy blowing away in the breezes
all the busy are stuck, spinning endlessly, on the quick wash unicycle
none of the etiquette equates to actual manners
no one’s manner equates
at least, not to anything short of mannerisms
the etiquette of mannequins
the ethics of plush toys; plush toys on holiday, plush toys that can’t be bothered with all your insistence on being treated as anything more than a plush toy
the horizon is full of paper cuts, and old bandaids
all the drums squeak when you hit them
each sip is dry, and demands yet another
if you’re walking into the furnace, be sure to take a jacket with you, so you don’t catch cold
every bottle you find is full of three wishes, someone else’s
none of the colors run; they all stand their ground, ready to fight you to the death
any of these knives are sharp enough to do the job, just as long as you don’t need to cut anything
all these silk handkerchiefs are perfectly safe; not a single one of them will have been harmed in the slightest, after they’re done strangling you
the factories are all at maximum production, cranking out empty picture frames and invitations to dinner
the lists of new lists seem to sit flush with eternity; none of them complain, and it takes a hot minute to become accustomed to the silence
every pile of shit that you see here, on the ground, they all taste like chocolate and peanut butter; trust me
this machine gun is so much more convenient than air conditioning
if we’re speaking candidly, then, you always preferred hanging your laundry out to dry
there are no more puppies but, we’re all stocked up on ska music, instant polyps, and disposable consciences
all the mountains shatter when you step on them… if we’re being totally honest
the days, all ripped up, for tourniquet rags
the hours, shattering into dust, if you so much as glance at them sideways
each of these marvelous things, all made possible by your presence
now, the hounds will go without their supper, and the king’s innards will spill out at his feet, there, on the palace floor
and all the poor children will cry, because none of the salads will ever be scrambled again
and the tumbleweeds will all starve, for want of the suffocation you so graciously bestowed upon them, in the days gone by
none of the little assassins will get Christmas cards this year, despite having been such good girls and boys
the coffee is full of conspiracy, and the fish all taste like marshmallows
the sleet sings sweet lullabies, in which there are no names
just between you and me, and this scarecrow, here…
as long as we’re shooting straight…
it’s terribly worrying to think that none of the boils will be allowed to fester and ripen in time for the harvest
because you will not be here to feed them
it is tragic, how much you will be missed
the traffic moves right along, screaming its miseries into the night
a crisp vertigo has bitch-slapped me right out of my seat, and taken my place at the table
how is it that one can be gun-shy and trigger-happy, at the same time?
these lesser mysteries fall pale and sickly, into the dim, sour heat of winter’s chamberpot
fasten a few severed limbs to your Christmas wreath, and sing that classic advertising jingle once more; it does so warm the hearts of the masses
put a few coppers into the wooden collection box to help the neighborhood children raise enough funds to burn down the old cathedral, and replace it with a house of mirrors
it’s a good cause
or, at least, it’s one that they’ll never write songs about, and hence, we’ll never have to listen to them singing
you scrunch up your brow and wonder, with a new brand of vexation, what is this peculiar dip you’ve been invited to plunge your nacho poker chips into?
it is gray with fear, it cringes and recoils when you move towards it
and, what’s more, it reeks of both vinegar and victory
a blind man sidles up next to you and tugs at your coat sleeve, saying “I’ve seen this movie. Trust me, you won’t like it, either.”
the cat has dragged home, and ceremonially draped, a hippopotamus across your threshold
it is more than a little incensed that you show no appreciation for its generosity
fickle creatures, all of us
more inscrutable nightmares, injected straight into the jugular
night wipes the sweat from its brow, takes another shot of whiskey, and motions disapprovingly toward the calendar on the wall
the constable slurs an order to the lieutenant on duty, who promptly douses the wall with gasoline, and sets the calendar ablaze
before exiting, he salutes, and cheerfully says, “No worries, sir. We’ll have a new one nailed up in time for the New Year’s festivities.”
all the stops have been ripped out from the church organ
now, it will do little more than blow bubbles, and coo sinister, atonal choruses of “Hail to the Chief,” “Ring Around the Rosie,” and “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”
“Ashes, ashes…”
we are always falling down
it has been said that there are worse things than you
still, it is truly impossible to know, and difficult to imagine, where such monsters could possibly exist
Kevin Trent Boswell 