25. The Stories

We chose something horrible, of course – the stories
all the old scars that form our inheritance
and the yearly repetition of summer & then
what comes after

What comes before smeared all over us now
it’s a cruddy cake we do regret eating
a dog wouldn’t – but aren’t we lacking its sense
of what is?

Hate bubbles up like paint in the August sun
all the stuff we’d taken sticking to us now
the children don’t realise but it covers them
absolutely

The stories mean nothing, are blossom sporing
yet again our dreams: canicide, revolution and
personal fulfilment. We ought to like the world & trust
wisely don’t