And wouldn’t it have just been my luck that something jumped out
of my mouth, ran down a pant leg through the chilly fire then rolled
among unshod feet of addicted celebrities, who, now totally wacked,
rush to marginal hospitals for the sumptuously disenfranchised?
And wouldn’t it have just been my luck that in this telling,
the beautiful hands of my princess become gangrenous while
her father, the king, having a squint eye, righteously beheads
any competent medical authority while elevating them to knighthood?
And his pawns, especially those made of wood, on nights
when the king was cold …quite reluctantly fuel his great
fires and are his most incandescent of retainers as they all
wear a livery of fireworks and combustible hydrocarbons.
And thus wouldn’t it have just been my luck that this kingdom
now collapses into a gold clotted sink-hole but is so infused
with deadly ennui that the gold was attainable only through
the immigration and effects of disposable zombies?
And wouldn’t it have just been my luck to see the sky dance
on a juggler’s unbalanced spheres as all musicians became
paralyzed from the wrists down when their heraldic pianos
and guitars clash, splinter against each other to the shrill
of feedback and the hiss of short-circuited microchips, while on
the streets below, short sheeted harridans flip their egregious,
skeletal behinds to the blood beat of the mob’s auto-erogenous
moanings? And wouldn’t it have just been my luck, that
Spring was rained out, when it had only a snowball’s chance anyway,
in these hot coliseums of sporty undertakers, who, florid with
compressed unction, practice their visionary self pollution? And
wouldn’t it have just been my luck to live when events push
to a grand but mostly whimpering conclusion, and know it all
mostly wasn’t there anyway, that dark nothings are eighty per cent
of the universe, which should have been apparent when (even
as children) we woke up in the middle of midnight, screaming
for our mothers?