Matthew Burnside

Technologies of Sorrow

The years grew longer. We grew more cynical.  Indolent for easy delights.
The TV salivated snow. The microwave schemed to touch the spoon for its sparks.
And the sky – the sky, in all its infinite skyfulness! its pink ramparts of clouds – lured us in
with its grisly shapes just to break us down with desire . . . Steeple us on our own drippy fangs of
daydreaming.
There is a smallness to grief I cannot extract through these unseemly apertures, so tomorrow
I shall find some new honey to swim through.
Build my own bees to drown; sinuses slick with molten gold.
And we will tumble off the tracks like toy trains into life’s hungry mouth, engines thrumming
just to stammer the silence.
Pray tell there will be teeth full of helium.
Thicket-rich with reverie?

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Matthew Burnside tweets about hot pockets sometimes @matthewburnsid7.