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back MIGUEL MURPHY

Hamlet

You’re worthless,
a leafy performance.
Orgasm, wasted on a mirror—
Your fear is

a white skull
atop a red
encyclopedia.
The laughter of the interior

experience, “To Thine Own
Self” etcetera.
Your inked, ornate
script in Old English

like scaffolding
veined near
a wholesome
areola—Sweet

Jailbate, preening at the gym
another year won’t
erase it.
You tug your dick and yawn,

trying to maintain.
Nothing,
pageantry. You’re empty.
The error’s

your self-loathing’s
incomplete—
Horror, Flowers, Pleasure.
Black Halls.

You’ll live forever. You’ll turn
autoimmune.
Bubonic, venereal,
green

moil of the groin. Like
a tree branch
in summer
trying to shake off

summer—
You’ll learn
the songs that
wither.  

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   Contributor’s notes

   Fukushima Winter
   Hamlet

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