A poem by Laurel Uziell
Wake to pennies stuck between your teeth,
hands crushed into tiny fists and pushed in-
side you. All I know are facts and these
mean nothing, change the world etc
but what methods can you use and really this
is a question of how much can you take,
how much before history just falls out of
your mouth and scoops up all the living
verbs. Dream of landlords crushed to
death by magnitudes expanding; remains
left behind in flakes and insufflated. And
I do want to deteriorate, extensity is not
enough to make you worth your life o
quick look a kneejerk spit hood stretched
across the face and labelled social love
and really this is what it is, this sentence
will never end so long as there is the
promise of a point. This is empathy
in blackface, cosy refuge what you call a
home, the entire globe don’t you know
this, I do and this makes me no better.
Learn to flourish in a body bag, blood
is watered down and so you are a human
today, violent all the way to the outline
of the skull, to be discovered in the future
and turned into an example. But really
the poem is just a horror film, livid at
banality and how life just goes on, go on
do take a picture or a swing at easy targets,
present in gashy semblance all the data
you will acquire from life and suck it
back in, metaphors for nothing, easy
money for a diagnosis of complexity but
cannot close the gap. This, this.
