the disgusting whimpering
will continue forever through
of the people who have
been mangled by a very particular and technical
kind of Love,
and it is like a
wailing chorus of
back of Humanity's Act,
of blubbering tearers of hair
and gibbering askers of
the most easily answered questions.
writhing prostrate in their beds,
asking why? Again and again,
like an obnoxious, over-indulged toddler.
This constant howl of love-agony
is the sound of those numberless wounded
egos, hearts, and egos
who have fucked up
the best thing they had ever tasted, imagined, glimpsed shared,
but which they fucked up
in the span of one tyrannical week or so
purely by using text messages and the internet for "communication,"
doing so as if compelled to
ruin it quickly and savagely,
and in such a maddening way as to
match the dizzy heights of the early glad drunkenness
with the filthy depths of
mournful, stunned confusion
that only come with brutal overnight termini,
and some vile text-duels.
Yes, boy, that's right:
keep on sending her messages,
keep stuffing those sausages for the Passover feast.
In this, we are wisely counseled
to never use gadgetry
to express real human emotions,
should we possess either.