The great barrier reef has been officially pronounced dead.
The coffee at work is burnt.
There are at least three bats living in my broken fireplace.
There are ghost children in the back of throat.
They taste like the sea in the places where the sea is garbage.
The news is being spoken in braille.
Trains are falling of cliffs.
Men in hats are sneaking around strangling women.
There is a room that is nothing but mattresses and for some reason I want to lay at the floor and stare at the ceiling at the synthetic lights
pretending they are the only sky I’ve ever known.
So manageable
families of flies dancing around a false god
unaware of the tempest that is brewing through the intangible ceiling.
South Broadway Ghost Society 