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the sutra of disconnectedness

i

we swept the floors
and when we
were all done,
we were left
with a pile
of twitching ants -
by the power
of all that is evil
and unholy,
most unsacred
conscious dust
befell from the feet
of the one who strums
the mind revealing
beat and hum
of eastern string instruments
and goes seven days
without human contact,
meditates in the cemetery
and swears upon
unbreathing dust
that he is sane,
that he is sane,
that he is not insane

ii

i like to blast marilyn manson
into my ears
until all that is
reasonable
comes undone
and bleeds out from my ears
in a never-ending
string
and gets broken
in various places
as i walk through downtown
art festivals,
passing by
neat and combed venders
in proper suits and bow ties

the banana rots in the fridge
and the dead cat lies by the road

3/21/17
4/5/17

Poetry by Thomas Perdue