The museum

Fill up this bombed-out shell
with trivia from warped souls,
carved into a petri-dish canvas
carried in
carried out

Let our wet mouths see
and stand and crowd below
the whoring of life's experience,
plastered onto writhing surfaces,
spread out across whitewashed walls

Let a silence hold within,
and bring the blackened wind of cars
from everywhere around,
and drill up the drone of rust machines
to digest the city under,
hoisted into grind and whir
by sooty hands left to mold
in the sewers of our success

let us build our monuments
and glide through a forest of forms,
grasping at perfection as
we cast ourselves in a thousand shapes,
and watch us degrade like analog tape
on endless repeat in old vcrs

our lives are curling wisps that rise
like waves from a stretch of tar

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