modern love

break the night’s fast
with absinthe and
glazed donuts. spend the morning
back in bed twisting the sheets.
buy drugs in the early afternoon
and walk for miles talking of crippled
ducks under the highways by the
dirty river. back to bed and then
when that’s done, eat roast beef
sandwiches and hard cider in front of
fictional crime. throughout,
cigarette after cigarette and
kiss upon kiss.

tomorrow, work or love
or work and love.
pay too much for bread.
steal books from a grocery store.
maybe fight again
and make up, then
go out to drink hard cider and
stare into the pierced faces
of those whose stories
are as weird as this one.

in another time,
someone would have called this litany
surrealism.

something there is these days
that does not love a foundation,
a normalcy. something there is these days
that demands chaos from lovers.

only the stillest moments
of our meager sleep
remind us
of our parents.