Pandemic Blues My self is isolated In the tempestuous scritching Of finespun souls that drink the dying air And dance wrongways to a wilting cadence Like fractured whelps tonguing the doorknob of Hell. I stockpile courage And slap my grouchy badger As the sciencemongers Whistle their cloddish dirges Through unkissed lips. Hope is a pathogen Gutterformed from my batmarket mind, The pandemonium pricktease Puffed up and pseudo-fudged By the fastidious bowels of fate. So suck on my social distance And rinse my hairy pirouette As recalcitrant nucleocapsids Doppelgangbang their way Into craven
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