The Winter’s Wind

by ...

Spencer Gordon

 

— January 1, 2015

Keats, Wordsworth, AViSON, Tupac,
ex-Jackass star Ryan Dunn: they all

claimed the same sly things: New Year’s Day
was Optimized for Suicide

& Wings. It’s all sable stars & Arcturus skies,
the lonely tear-sucking Hoover of space

& that penile moon who thrives on
lovers’ pain. You Auld Lang Syne yourself to bae’s place

in cupidity’s clanging streetcar, & oh: what a fuck
day you’re gonna be. So start a New Year right

by unfollowing those who don’t follow Bing
& forgive us our trespasses, those Lena Dunham nights

of glassy apps that read, “You Better Work,”
“Fuck the Police,” & “Support Pirate Bay.”

Alright:
I’d rather be alive than dead

I GUESS, & that’s all I’ve moaned & kerned
from sixteen years of Sega Genesis in bed

& slobbing your inane numinous Tays …
So adios my tangy brothers, my booze-couched

sisties, pouring Red Bull into pizza ports to toast
no shame, an apogee, or a Something-Gate.

It’s another New Year’s Day, the bells all ringing out
like it meant something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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