tony stanza

Cry
like little bitches
find a nitsch

Die
like saints abound
with silken wings

Sigh
in what is jotted down
a scribble of non

Fry
to death the nobel
laureate's name

Lie
when oppossed
just like that

Death is a syrup poured over cakes of lime and mahogony and buffed out, polished brass, sunk so deep into the soul of Earth that we all vomit