The North Walker Mental Mayday Parade
Meat in black underwear,
Kitchen tile floor scaffolding,
A thousand grieving mothers fall out his eyes.
The mourners line the streets,
In the distance, you can hear the trash bag waltz
As the parade for the burial begins.
It’s like a postcard from an old girlfriend
she sent when she wasn’t returning home,
A worthless museum coming
To life!
To life! I say!
Stand clear for the tin cans come reeking their vinegar.
Empty cigarette packs, march in beautiful rotten food stains formations.
Beer bottles clank and clump together
While the burnt notes of the microwave food containers
Blow loud all over them in 30 seconds or less.
This odd marching band starts playing such a lovely nervous breakdown,
So that all those dead sons can be seen by all those Sundaybest mothers
One last cathode blue time.
Dressed in uniform,
All pixilated and full of love,
Ready to go the meat recycler.
Back to the old days,
New to the night’s face,
The meat in black underwear sits watching this spectacle.
Ready now, to cook the old wounds out and heal
This infected distance with a shower of peroxide affection.
After recovery, he will see if the postal service bombed
During the war
Shall be rebuilt.