The empire has struck back. A phosphate-green
monoculture of god-starved thugs and molls.
Sycophants posing in four dimensions.
No bees to answer the orange blossoms.
No fatty plaques to foul their obscene hearts.
No master key to muddled memory.
I’m doom scrolling through the neighborhood
text thread. Oh, my fillings and emulsions!
Can I go back to smoking in a bar
with wickerwork settees and a blowsy
amaryllis swaying on the china hutch?
Maybe I’ll sprout a luxuriant beard
and vanish into a cypress morass.
The next election can’t come soon enough.
.
Lance Newman
.