Pickled Ginger Mints And Popinjays

ghosts singsong nursery rhymes
into the eardrum thumping inner thoughts
chipping ice with an ironfeather
plucked from your wings
and now things rupture after raptures.
blood smoke and smog
humping a pale of milk uphill
to a kindness, rumors
dreamt about
behind your
back.

pickled ginger mints and popinjays
gurgling on fog and sweet bitters
deep dreamt and unimpeachable
because the human is real
and the hell
the same.

we sing in the face of the voidling
glitched in our boxes mostly-
but from somewhere
our songs
Do.