“Lines and prose and text and dance
relates back to something,” Meepo reads, a
post-modern Wagnerite proverb from my Panic!
at the Disco stickered notebook, circa 8th grade.
Perusing Pale Fire in our chagrin casket while avoiding dish duty,
process adds in both Panic! at the and Das
Rheingold, but what about the littered girl bodies?
What about the thrashing torrential snake demon
evolved from magic carp?
“How can I relate that to the other stuff?”
Ghastly ShitCup mumbles over
grey grits and peanut butter banana slices.
the cafeteria implodes for the third time that week,
and the grand wizard circle just shrugs it off and
tells everyone to go back to eating.
“Anyway, it just doesn’t all add up like that,”
Pound continues, wiping debris out of his Hitler
Nearby, Dirty Town is evacuated again.
I stare at the slop on my tray and I swear it moves,
their siren sure and rumbling.
didn’t add up, did it?