TOUCHTOUCHTOUCHTOUCH

Oh, Panacea come to me now,
I've been waiting for so long.
Three candles I've burnt through, Panacea.
I'm lost in my labyrinthine desires again, Panacea.
Oh, Panacea come to me please.
My head is tired, my brow hurts from squinting, I'm queasy.
I won't mind if you say,
"But I've never done this before."
Oh, Panacea. The evanescent tremors that glaze me over ever so often aren't enough.
Lasting Panacea, speak to me.
Hollow me out, maroon me if you must; anything.
Stifle the piercing sound of this imbroglio that is mummifying
what was supposed to be my temporary body. 
I do not want to be remembered for this, Panacea.
I do not want grave robbers to find me like this, Panacea.
I do not want to be a murderer, Panacea.
I do not want to kill him, Panacea.

Halcyon mornings tell of spinning earths,
proper alignment,
sex and rebirth,
the scuttle of breakfast,
the grease of the pan,
burnt communal offerings
and the death of man.
Gray suit, gray tie, gray hat
gray crewcut:
the fodder of stigma,
cartoon of anticapitalist smut.
This man died.
This man is dead.
We were all there, beside the funeral bed.
He was an era of mold,
of hidden rapture,
of tubes of toothpaste, TV dinners,
and silent capture.
Ruminating through the annals now as the passive doe:
the exploited steer,
and to thought, the foe.

It's Here! It's Here!

 

Tumbleweed Zine is printed and ready to be sent out! If you're interested in a copy, email your address to tumbleweedzine@gmail.com

If you want to contribute, email your ideas to the same address.