Victory

We have seen your visions of platonic sluts
gurgling in the backwash of victory.
Stables of ermine corrugated peaceniks
verging on plumes, nailed to freezing
clear rain. The evidence is
formulaic. Worship from urgency
sells books and flares blood
but reality frags its irritants, bulging
with flu-like symptoms.

I think the reason for this is
evident. It creeps through
the version of fatality you
urge on the unrequited.

Idiotic flame-throwers on sale
and belabored grills flopping
on the shore. There was
no prison so clocked
as your agenda for the banished fame
of our weary and sincere.

Now that you eat wet forms of
tribulation and spit out the former
fuming reliance on fortune,
yes, you can exact the pallor of your
resentments and call them deep
sparkles of destiny but

the clinging clanging dancing plate
inside the wobbly body
flips through the glare with its
own long yawn
regardless. Regard
is for us. This is
where you truly fail.

12/04