Dean Sobers
Garden hermits,
icemen and water-carriers
are breaking it
to scribes and calligraphers.
“You’d tell of that last
morbid trip to Blockbuster.
Remember?
“The man in there, he’s greeting you:
‘Good evening, Friend’.
Stilted, almost mediæval.
You struggled with laughter
in that destitute outlet you’d once
needed a passport to visit.
“Now I will arrange for your death.
Now I will arrange for your death.
Now I will arrange for your death.
For your death.
“Think of this sacking
as an opportunity.
I can’t bear
to see my friend on his knees.
I can’t bear … I can’t do
nothing while you just calcify in place.
“The longer you stay,
the more treacherous the trap.
The hollower the wage.
The feeling you’re just waiting to be
in someone’s way
but can’t change your path.
“Now I will arrange for your death.
Now I will arrange for your death.
Now I will arrange for your death.
For your death.”
Can you fight?
Can you fight
through miles of night
under quiet constellations
of fifers and lamplighters,
just to do a thing
well that isn’t useless?
They say “Join us.”