RIP Current

Poetry

Matthew Leist

Suffer aquatic ache, can’t fly here
amongst dirt dwellers, it’s too dry here.
Self obsession smogs the horizon,
so there may as well be no sky here.

Faces to numbers, numbers to slots;
plastic only, flesh need not apply here.
Fish mouth empty words in massive schools,
consensus says yes we can die here.

The question is the ending answer:
souls born to eat, sleep, decease; why here?
Stare at mirrors, windshields, screens but
we don’t meet our reflection’s eyes here.

The gasp guzzle of trying to drown
how you’re told to; you can just lie here.

Matthew Leist’s blood bubbles, breathing
through red self-slit gills, say goodbye here.



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