There was no ark, no broken seal. The dead
clock this world but not like how I was taught.
“Oi git overstrung, freaked oyt, too,” I zed.
“Oi’m fired up. Oi’m fucked up. Oi’m overwrought.
But Oi’m perfect, otherwise.” Other … wise.
4-sight. Savoir faire. It’s there: that finite
tense that we both sensed. That manic demise
that no laws, lit or holy writ can right.
We don’t know and the dead don’t claim the truth.
The dead just are — absurd as negative
numbers, absurd as love. Call their wisdom
the same when my knees bend, cheeks bulge, uncouth
jaw pops with your climax, with what you give;
no arks, no laws, no writ. Just soul. Just cum.