Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021

After the Prelude

Hardstyle is hearing
the nurses in the next room
calling you to a terrifying orgy
and having
no idea whether what
you’re hearing is half-baked
or ingenuous.

After twenty years all I have to
deal with are the
embers of my once hot head.
There was some half life decay
on the other side
of that elegant door.

You can’t find any hatred here or happenstance
in the dark room with the big TV
and if I do Hotmail and stay apart
and say my prayer it’s always the case
that God let’s me off the hook.
I’m chronic.

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