noctuids amidst the noria

we, in vile morbidity, are the moth’s wing,

as it hovers over the post-party debacle

surrendering to the cordobesan feria.

its departure from light like a tree shedding leaves

amidst the veracity of a summer storm.

we, the tornado’s rapture, in a midwestern gully,

before it takes house and hut, family, friends.

yet our embryo so subtle, so clandestine,

its appalling lucidity devoured,

taken by the rusted pipes and flaking walls

of these aging antiquities, in vain.

this is us, seeking such secretion,

feigning to be heard,

where the clamoring racket of crickets whelm,

chirping wildly in the grain.

we do our best to let splendor suffuse,

as the lavenders induced, adorned,

coax pollen and bees

to rove and fuck just for fucking’s sake.

yet the sweet sweat drips, it drops,

as we sneeze and bustle in a deadened street,

on our fashion strips,

in our simple, stupid dreams.

stoned by booze and tiny pills,

by ferris wheels and cheap food,

by the woo of french dames and salsa steps,

of the moth’s decaying larvae.

but we loll as hastened hiccups,

not really sure what we are,

we are rushed to finish something,

the great capitalist renaissance.

gloomy and bleak, the choir

of monotonous replication,

it’s the nihilist’s cry of naught,

while we’re awoken yet again.

we are that moth’s adulteration,

scavenging the sky,

we are the onlooker’s protrusion

while our heroine languishes in her disguise. 


Brandon Lee Kramer © 2011