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  • Amit Parmessur

The Way Things Are

The Way Things Are

All words are made for tongues, but not all tongues

in this town are made for words. Some mouths are

mistaken for plastic bottles and have

cheap corks. And the way things are in this town

your head’s going to break like an egg squeezed

between a child’s fingers. The way things are

in this town your tears will get stuck into

your barbaric beard, a young inverted

pyramid of dead dreams. As a flower,

you sacrifice your stem for the nectar

only to find that the pregnant moon you’ve

always wanted has miscarried and you’re

left with skies exaggerating what you

want to unveil. And then your voice commits

suicide down your throat and people part

their lips before opening their eyes. The

way things are in this town, it’s going to

be an eternity waiting for blunt

rays from the sun to wither and cascade

down to cut the crazy cows telling calm

lies all over the meadow. The way things

are, every bud is but a helpless fist.

—Amit Parmessur


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