Sonnet in which Angels Do Not Age, Neither Do Clouds

A folk tale of rook-pecked corpses and rusty bicycles
For which the pink elastic strings of the fable’s bikini
Has been washed too many times Like laying
A flaming palm branch of donkey shit at your door

After S– stood you up twice for coffee and struck
That match which lit your brain afire Again AMOK
In a clay hole surrounded by mortar rounds and
two broken vending machines with the image of POTUS

45 We’re in the Mental Block of the Hospital where
Everything’s REAL and prepped for the Furnace
With a bottle of opiates and 22 ½ gray pairs of socks

Just don’t play the role of the psycho (but claim your
Grandmother’s dementia) when the male nurse’s finger
Turns into a blade to get rid of humpty dumpty & your vertigo