Peter Jay Shippy
Because They Have No Mouths
It’s easier done than said
To kill aliens. It turns out
The human corpse liberates
Gases and glop that wreak
The proverbial holy havoc
On their brainframes. Simply:
Apply the hari to the kari
And bingo!: Alien quandary
Quashed. But guess what?
Turns out that the general pop
Are not interested in suicide.
No—they do not wish to die
For the cause, cause—guess what?
They’re keen on the motherless
Fuckers. The aliens cured cancer!
The aliens got to the bottom
Of global warming! The aliens
Baby-sit on Saturday nights!
We can lead sheep to water, but
We have to slit your throats
To make you drink. So we will.
We’ll push the red buttons and let
Loose our missiles and germs
And wipe our planet clean. We will.
You’ll thank us later, in heaven.
Or not, and if not—no matter.
Spring in the Fallen City
The bed frame
Under the window
The white sheets
The white curtains
Gather on the attic floor
Take the weight
Off your feet
Imagine a veil
Of rose blossoms
The bed frame
Under a sheet
Of red petals
Take the weight
Off your feet
Under the attic floor
In the fallen city—
Spring