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Turn Left Where There's No Exit
By John Grey
I’m through with meaning
and so should you be.
It’s no use to the bison with a comma for a face.
Nor the ivy-painted wall flower with roots down to the cellar.
The gist is not what it’s fracked up to be.
A mulberry-stained octopus has seen to that.
And there was the time my insane parents
danced across the Rubicon.
And I worked as a train schedule in upstate New York.
These things just happen.
Why is beside the point.
It’s even beside Rubik’s Cube and the Incredible Hulk.
If it’s explanation you’re looking for
then you’re on the wrong planet.
The moon is a Chinese mood swing.
The monster is a clanging triangle.
An open book?
I escaped from one once
when it caught fire.
My inculpable desire was stabbed twice, both times in the back.
I gave away my funny bone to the pelican on the dock.
I save the First World War for those drowsy bedside hours.
I find ping-pong is an antonym for your cold, dead mother.
I vomit clouds.
I give birth to televisions.
Are you with me so far?
If not, then you are.