Poetry: One Hundred Million Chances by A.C. Apley

One Hundred Million Chances
In this world, your dead face is my favorite feature
As my hands curve over your picturesque frame
Ghosts dressed in your nightgowns surf by overhead
Upper asses exposed, as if by some godless plan
Birth has been reconnoitered, force-fed out the back end
I scratch flesh in half and pass round my glasses
They never get enough of what’s done to them
A government file over every expression
I’m just an urge, punished for discomfort of others
You’re a slave to the glass which plucks out your eye
Our atmosphere might be painfully rendered
But I take pride, correcting cattle swag with a bullet
Every day in this shit hole’s a chemical burn day
I vulture my hate till people turn roadkill
My face is gassed by a biplane or semi
In your smog’s where I hover, it’s in you that I wait

A.C. Apley lives in Metro Detroit.


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