Laughter, though, sustaining
all this miraculous disorderliness
nostalgia of the non-human
– it glitters! somehow slippery as
oh, bêche-de-mer – what allows this?
joy, skipping through our mongrel lives
to the horizon, that buffet of possibilities
triumphal perversity playing within our memories
it enacts our redeeming so
Some stodgy manifestation follows
not together, but smearing & misguided
where are the poets then? no warning
our bodies still always mock-heroic and alone
no triumphal re-entry now, but sedative
the misunderstanding is great: all gods broken
imagine it’s intensified & shining, the split
not spoken, not written, a right shard of shit
devoured in irrationality, profoundly marginalese then dead