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Break in the Vase (Please DON'T)


by Darryl Price


The atrocities are being so quiet, printed on your
pink fashions, like gum pop wrappers. The atrocities are
wriggling in their cans, waiting to be let out 
at night to scare the kids with their eerie, 

bat-shaped wailing ghostly moans. The atrocities sometimes stay formless 
and unspoken, until they are needed to extract the 
shaken, stolen money. The from and the what for 
are hardly worth mentioning. The crack in the head

tells you more about the exact words than any 
dictionary or thesaurus. The atrocities like to burn a 
widening hole everywhere but inside the false narrative. The
atrocities don't care if you're an angry conservative or 

an angry radical. They want you to sell your 
soul. The atrocities like to invite you into a 
fuzzy liquor trance anytime they can. Tee shirts aren't 
the only place where they advertise their goods. Atrocities

are good for business all over the place. Brutish 
men understand this perfectly. The atrocities sell everything from 
underwear to golf clubs. The atrocities wonder if you 
can understand any of this before it's too late. 

They would probably have to kill you to shut 
you up from telling any others. The atrocities come
in an enormous amount of magazine colors for your 
viewing pleasure. They still want you to sell your 

personal soul. That's non-negotiable. The atrocities are willing to 
do whatever it takes to get you to sign 
on the dotted line. But wherever they put you 
up, you're going to need a pretty long extension 

cord to survive the night. Just saying. The atrocities 
want you to bite your own tongue. It's for 
your own good. The atrocities have been snickering up 
their sleeves for some time now. Do you know 

what they are laughing at? Does it matter? It 
matters. I suppose you're not allowed to say that 
out loud anymore. I don't follow their simple rules 
for corruption of the heart. I think for myself. 

   
 
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