Nietsche is Dead

chicken wire homegrown
accustomed formerly
known, as it was
and so we sang our didn'ts:

I will unsing your heros,
down to the last unwilling
only port-a sentimental
croon, embittered

by a family friend
who leaves and,
having done so
cannot again.

his black currant
and other self is gone
as well, singing
oh my clementine darling

to the inside
of his windshield,
trapped in the traffic
door jamb

like the faberge
egg salad lapidary
mayonnaise he is
prolonged in the becoming of.

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