gattaca

all us hurting things
will stand up
eventually

all at once
and laugh ourselves
into infamy

that stings like
stinking
frayed strings

until someone
changes them
and,  no one looking, 

the gift shop gets
robbed blind, 
as the house band

is forcefully
induced
to accompany 

one thousand
year old rituals
for the sake

of function
and the sting

the sting, 
the sting, 
that hurting thing

continuing to sting

and outside
the front door

daylight broods a broadsword
we bring

we bring
we bring ourselves back indoors,

because the jokes on them out there,
thinking it’s their job to
waste away

into nothing but pleasure.
Because we know better.

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