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John Edward Marks (JEM)

catch my death

an English melody

travelling from heat to freezing cold

trans-this, sans-that, groan old.

Mealy-mouthed moaning means nothing to me,

people volunteer eat, shit, eat shit, they do,

they’re that stupid.

Put a gun in a man’s hands

this murderer wears a funny hat

no smiles, no this, no that

no men o’pause, just the bare necessities.

Freeze, moan, groan, be, alone

in this barely-mystic air

that is always, and forever, where

i see through bare air, miss everything.

One of Solz’s gulags, it’s a European thing,

every songbird says.

You get the wrong sign, get out of line,

a triangle or an equation

-b + or — sq root of b2–4ac/2b.

That’s just one way to pray

I have a guilt for my best friend,

keeping him warm, in his grave.

Nothing stops this inclement shivering inside,

by all means there’s worse to come,

sans teeth, sans fun, sans everyfuckingthing.


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