poems are not the maw
but the drool dripping
from it onto a "same old, same old"
protagonist realizing their fate
as they tremble trying to keep
the alien jaws at bay.

what should i do with that intel?

spin wheels with friends killed
in the fantasies they awoke in?!

im spent still with a grin in the
"you mad at me?' ocean.

oh **** is a cloak,
hope is a dagger in the back.

at least the ghost will be potent, right?