poem: hamlet

my mother ran out of my sore emotions/ my raw
open mouth, with her hair on fire. pushkin heard there was plague
up ahead, in the estates at bodin, and said fuck it.
he wrote well there, the universe the gods came and sat,
wondering at him: guess this is mozart, guess the rest
of us can just say fuck it. and stop
trying. i read dostoevsky for the tumblr aesthetic, i
am literary basketcase/ literary
whore. if i heard there was plague ahead, i would run there
and die, and write nothing. to spite my mother, to spite
myself. my body would writher up violently, life seizing like
old pears and falling out of my eyelids, the drip-drip-drip
of my life falling out of my eyelids. life is just
a walk across a field.

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