The Poets Congregate on the Graves

By Jason Quiggle

The poets congregate on the graves.

We no longer use tombstones
They realize.

The poets congregated in the mud

small vid screens displaying pictures and homevideos.
Life condensed into an endless loop
Birthday married dead.

The poets eating their own hate poems burnin em and smearin the ashes on their own faces.

The poets congregate on the ruin of a once great wonder of the world ,
An Edifice flaccid they stroke their pencils leopard like with teeth marks and three hundred dollar stolen 14 kt pens that don’t even work very well and they stroke their laptops with electronic Endust and they weep one letter at a time one tear at a time one vapor at a time one one vapor at a time one vapor at a time.

The poets congregate in the public urinal and none of them can remember how to pee furtively sneaking glances at each other making each other nervous trying to relax all the muscles that so many years ago had congregated in their pelvis and have now betrayed them in the midst of so many truthful eyes

In the rubble the poets stumble unable to stand up to the tumult,
They left the truth long ago but it has found them….
What to do, what to do.

The world is a sword,
Where is yours….

Pencil-dick.