Junk Poetry Poem by Zoe Nyght

When the days start to slide
into two-faced mediocrity,
should we blend back
into the dreams we come from?
Should we tapdance
back into fairytales when we know
all the frogs are dead?
Will you remember winter days
that felt like spring
when you regurgitate
all the lies you were fed?

We had a barbecue on the day
the president died;
his caravan rolled past us like a
carnival in the desert
as clowns became vultures
and feasted on the pieces
of nationalistic pride
as anarchy was born
next to the hot dogs and fries.

Will the world be a better place
now? Are the rainbows on the horizon
symbols of well-placed hope
or of simply more emptiness
with no gold pots
at the end of the rope?
It’s luck that’s brought us here,
the princess to the lily pond
with lips puckered
for toads hopping around
the tips of her petticoat.

Lover-friend-brother
we stick together like
fog to cement,
but it’s a new era
and the president’s dead.
Stories won’t tell me
why it’s a gray day in
paradise, but
I’d rather not worry
and just kiss you until
sunrise in purgatory.