Dear Mr. Prufrock,



Your words taste like caramel in my mouth.

But words of wisdom do not exist.

Those who think the dangerous thoughts

That if,

Dribbled out,

Would indeed disturb the universe

Have either tied their tongues with a rotten noose

Or lie etherized, sprinkling the soot-filled streets,

Spitting out their butt-ends in a daze.


There isn’t time,

Nor room for questions on my plate.

For my fate came in upon a platter.

After teas, and cakes, and crisis,

I did not eat the peach.

Nor the toast,

Nor the marmalade.

I ate me.

And how my arms and legs grew thin.


As I fell in the weeping brook,

--My clothes spread wide--

I recalled my mother’s lullabies.

No, I do not think she’ll sing to me.

For as I lick my tongue into the corners of the grave,

I force upon her,

A salty, stinging cage.


For the first time,

I wish I had bitten off the matter with a smile.

“I am Lazaruas, I’ll come back…

I’ll come back…

This is not what I meant at all.”


But I, a creature native,

Dragging myself down with ragged claws,

Hold my coat and snicker.


The human voices won’t wake us.

They can’t shake us.

So I drown.


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