B&H Art

Laughing When People Die

We disappear
into folds of skin sculpted
by fast food and
airbrushed glamour, our sin
the gluttony of survival.

We don’t really survive, anymore; we live
hard and long, fellatiotic
music, a whisper of a mess
on our lips, and we wear
our children’s flesh.

We cry for the end of things,
flailing in the dark
at the consuming pressure
of giving a fuck.  But who are we kidding?
We will never give a fuck.

And so we’ll keep dreaming
and keep pointing
at the pigs who carry our
iniquity on their backs,
right over the fucking edge.

We celebrate this
because what is more just
than laughing when people die?
What is more humane
than a lie?


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