the destroyer > text > Logan Fry


The wedge of the night of life help upon us we laughed
and tipped it over so it formed a dark matter ramp

Local cool teens arrived and started doing their thing
while method acting the most badass oblivion

and soon we found ourselves under a wall of sneer and chant
aerosol cans rattling our arms off and shooting

pulses of pastoral depth and rustling greenery on the unedged plane
of the ramp and its damn subatomic density

The cool teens got bored
they were hoping for droopy dicks they could tag

our names under after we left so they ollied off into a soda ad
massive with ebullient dangerous inventive high fives

This wedge of pastoralia confronted us
miniature nude shepherds lazed by the dawdling stream

pissed disinterestedly into it in thick arcs over diving albatross
a flock of jovial oaks with ADHD leaves got to us

it riled our gorge til we chewed bile
we scoured the underpass found a bumper and heaved it

chucked a sheet of spiderwebbed glass it folded midair like wings and
shards like birdfish scales dandruffed the ammonia creek in slow motion

we discovered half a sleeping bag hurled it and its fiberglass stuffing
rare bits of manuscripts we flung ’em etcetera

until pastoralia vanished, piled on so
and we could resume ignoring the act of warm attention

that granted us such fine advice to ignore and be bored in ignoring
these top-down sensible-shoe pantsuit heedings

and realize with the cool teens long departed we had evidence we could be
much like them if only we could be less private

in our cruelty and grow to regret it
and never admit it

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