Two by Jack T. Marlowe

5am death dirge

the street

lamps shut

their eyes

and listen

to the sui-

cide cry of

5am, the

dry cough

of a night

run out of

gas, the

lament of

a gutted

love, its

tragic

breath

pungent

with decay

but wearier

and a

deeper

blue, the

throb of

exhaustion

as the

executioner

sings his

last torch

song, and

the sparrow

twitters her

response:

she has

no regrets

and he

wishes

that he

were

only

so

lucky 

a wretched intimacy

decorum is

dead, your

cheery

welcome

mat, no 

more than

an artifact

when

Misery

shows up

and steps

over the

corpse

and 

when

Misery

decides to

move in

she doesn't

wait for an

invite to

cross the

threshold

(of your

pain)

arriving

with all of

her usual

baggage

side-

stepping

the sofa to

claim your

bed, a perfect

setting for the

spectacle

of naked

suffering in

repose, her

legs spread

to expose the

grief-hewn

abyss

into which

you are

thrust

head

first

for a long

night of 

fucking

Misery