Your anguish is a beaten ghost in his late teens
who’s bound his worst parts up into a lightly
bleeding gangrened little mummy. He offers it
to you to keep, to place it by your pillow while
you sleep, to let its glum effusions leak out through
its bandages to queer and tweak the atmosphere
and drag whatever happened back then here.
Sneaky silent cosmic laughter in the wings attends
your deepest sorrow incrementally. Eventually,
on some morrow, possibly before you die,
although it may be later, sick emissions from
the pent-up glop will finally have stunk sufficiently
to reach the top hilarities of sky: excite, incite, ignite
a greater volatility in soul and mind and eye than
you could possibly have known. You will be blown
to smithereens, and free that sorry spirit in his
teens, and blast the whole exactitude of crap
into a cloud of holy shrapnel. Bye-bye hell.
.
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