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Lament for Dr. Jekyll

Jamison Crabtree

We have become as good as we dress; now
Henry please Henry listen listen listen

we are either (mis)tooken or (mis)taken with the grotesque.

Whoever was buried (you),
lets say we were there. We paid our respects, I spit my secret
into your coffin, and nailed it shut (all of us love in jest).

So yeah— then, me (myself)
and everyone else, we all went back to business. But what,

oh what to do? Not much for you. These days

the only decent virtues are grief and cruelty. Who is left to kiss

the blackmouthed brutes reclining against the cobblestone walls?
The answer is: all, all all. Pucker up.

This practice of living has made me sick.

Jane decided to love me (for a while) after I pressed her
like a flower
between myself and a chain link fence (our lips
are broken filaments). The wicked can take

and take for the simple sake of it and for this
they are blessed.

I can’t live with myself anyway and anyway
Henry, you’re dead, so let’s make this quick:

with monsters, the most common question is hello
followed closely by why are you doing this.

And you already knew

the most repeated phrase is no no, no,
split like kindling with the edge of the tongue,
burned to ash and ember in the pit of the mouth.

And then the word is gone. Henry, what I’m saying is

I do not want to be a victim anymore.

Jamison Crabtree

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