Dear John Donne

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Abstract

footage is busted and the contraption smells of vinegar.</p><p id="ac00">Men sway in stop-motion, whispering hallelujah, dripped in robes and entropy ignorant of chalices spilling iocane powder over distribution.</p><p id="f249">Blue tarp under a single cloud mocking union lost among hubcaps warping trees <i>when the pride of death sees no God</i> as they spin in decreasing revolution of cement brakes stains oil saliva forced to meander a river for two fools prone as some fondness for a president rambling mocking disdain like matrimony.</p><p id="d21b">Come back with me to the Dragon’s Den where you and I drank cherries absinthe water breathing a moisture barrier masked and unmasked into the static of years before 2020 projected by a wet microphone that held the balcony door ajar.</p><p id="6186">I’ve been purging my c

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loset in a quarantine need of halters ponchos skirts anything revealing, as if the poetry books are stacked for galactic cannibalism</p><p id="cfcd">yet here we are. Your devices will barely glitch as I lurch this toss pile toward the inevitable.</p><div id="c610" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/leaving-you-for-jellyfish-lake-242779b9d0f2"> <div> <div> <h2>Leaving You for Jellyfish Lake</h2> <div><h3>to the depths Lachesis permits</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*BuNaK9Ym3gQEcxYy)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

when the pride of death sees no God

Portrait of the English poet and cleric John Donne (1572–1631), by an unknown English artist, edited with Bazaart by Dionne Charlet.

You and I exist lambent in nonchalance, mists static bills pandemic injustice politics we ebb the stalemate of each other dry rotting with that heirloom quilt, my lips crack more each day.

16-millimeter film clatters on, the light once used to convey the footage is busted and the contraption smells of vinegar.

Men sway in stop-motion, whispering hallelujah, dripped in robes and entropy ignorant of chalices spilling iocane powder over distribution.

Blue tarp under a single cloud mocking union lost among hubcaps warping trees when the pride of death sees no God as they spin in decreasing revolution of cement brakes stains oil saliva forced to meander a river for two fools prone as some fondness for a president rambling mocking disdain like matrimony.

Come back with me to the Dragon’s Den where you and I drank cherries absinthe water breathing a moisture barrier masked and unmasked into the static of years before 2020 projected by a wet microphone that held the balcony door ajar.

I’ve been purging my closet in a quarantine need of halters ponchos skirts anything revealing, as if the poetry books are stacked for galactic cannibalism

yet here we are. Your devices will barely glitch as I lurch this toss pile toward the inevitable.