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.