half the world
freezes
bombs pulverize
half the world
you wake
to kittens
and strippers
and slippers
maybe a stupor
of sunlight
the ape parts of you
sing something
into the fridge
the Great Love
has landed on you
like a butterfly
secretly conscious
who secretly consumes
flesh of the dead
(butterfly consciousness
must feed too)
but you don’t want to know
about the secret life
of butterflies
you spread the wings
of your dingy robe
you flit
lepidopterously
towards the nearest bit
of tragedy
that glows