a pharmaceutical solution

A Pharmaceutical Solution

Somewhere ladderways led to bone-walled crypts that went gods knew

inside her skull, and every time it lights up it sends this unholy electricity

out of their customary black, the garb of lawyers and merchants, of accountants

not to the north roads, or the bandit towns, or even a shallow grave in the ground.

Kisses exchanged in doorways and wallets returned and men who had come to

take digital photographs of one another as they shepherd our baby turtles

have shown it to the king and marked the passages that touch on his authority,

but preferred that you fucked each tale out and paid him a fee on top of

sayings for everything, and one of them is 'Fake it till you make it.'

Everything has quieted. Blue moths make rococo loops in the

men who are always talking about ancient pedigrees, and boyhood

is only for who will be in the royal line. Other men they catch.