Seven Sentences
A Poem  

Smoke spilling up from the pipe of the bespectacled priest as we sat by the electric fire, I answered his query, “Poetry is dead.”

“It’s like that movie that I saw but now is too old to be a useful reference to anyone that I’m talking to.” 

“This is MY church!” she laughed, as uncertainty and darkness descended with wings and pressures. 

Not just any handshake, oh no. 

I, for one, am weary of constantly “needing” to be ready, to justify, to excuse, to accept, to be a memory hole machine. 

Never underestimate the power of your own, personal disassociation anchor. 

All my problems are just solutions I don’t understand yet anyway.

Till angel cry and trumpet sound,
The Mad Christian