made in series

there’s nothing sadder than hearing old people
in the asylum at sunset sharing endless confessions
about the prostatic symptoms they are passing
of the lungs and kidneys’ disorders
weakened by the senile appearance of their organs
ephemeral tribes of sufferers tying the laces
of their ragged shoes in haste, stuffing them
with cotton imbued in alcohol
their veins getting thicker and thicker
they’re the ones you can sing with in a duet
the utopia of a complete freedom
no matter a typical can do revives the rough
and shriveled surfaces in hospitals

swallowed by the white nights’ pus
you are throwing dice on a red table
like the one
upon which you last played the well-paved
twisted street happening

conversations lurking by excellence, growing dim
you are waiting to bury your dead with their head
downward in the tomb
where poor bugs think they’re huge forks
thrust in the stone jaws
a square opening about four feet wide for a dull
happiness made in series
I climbed on to raise
the mast

how much did I then desire
to let my body crash into the sea
and the rumble
deafen my ears
just like iron-picks fastening
a bolt when very cold, recovered yet unheard