Giving up Opera
Form can’t forge angels out of pain. I still praise tight-shut arias, caramel gilded breath.
Once embellished to “flatter the vanities of the ruling classes.” Seria to preserve public
surrender. How could I be so cursive? My head contracts carnivals.
Once in an Ohio bout of concession, I slid along the addict’s chin to rot.
Big knife he forged in prison on display in his kitchen– the entr’acte of damage slewed and long.
Fuck the Arcadian Academy and “heart like a clock” similes. I’ll crust the crowds with
stage- worthy nothing and leave a shattered After.