We’re running out of music
and there isn’t much time.
Our poetry has failed.
Art is a red stripe across a black wall.
The inventions rot into the garden.
The hemlock has won.
Love is a syphilitic corpse
buried in a coffin of mirrored glass.
Dogma diddled innocence
until little remained but weathered skin,
while family forsook respect,
leaving no one to babysit
but a revolver in the closet.
Dignity and decorum packed their bags,
looked sadly around the abandoned flat
and left for the sun.
There isn’t much time.
I’m running out of music
and the assholes are breaking my spine.
My faith is in ribbons. My grip is slipping.
And I only have one fingernail left.
Ian Donald Keeling has been published in various publications, including: Grain, Queen’s Quarterly, and Realms of Fantasy. His first play, “The Boys,” came third in the 2003 Toronto Fringe Playwriting Contest. He lives in Toronto, Canada.
Ian Donald Keeling has been published in various publications, including: Grain, Queen’s Quarterly, and Realms of Fantasy. His first play, “The Boys,” came third in the 2003 Toronto Fringe Playwriting Contest. He lives in Toronto, Canada.
