it is much too late in the novel, dearest mircea
it is much too late to be adding
a new love interest. there's less than
a pinky’s width held between fore and
middle fingers;
a hundred pages really. less than that even.
horace has no business; riddled as he is by
imbedded wounds in need of nursing; considering
idioms duly retired and mountains wicked to ash.
a freshly tilled field; cooperative shadows
in the middle evening. it all goes grey anymore.
doubledutch your way behind the plow;
tuck yourself in, mircea. in rows of cold coffins.
settle; reluctantly; but settle
we aren't awaiting any new profundity
let the skies glaze with fire
let your mechsuit; laden with anvil and navel;
forge hope in the sequel.
chisel the words off the page; mircea
tell your children not to have children
blow a kiss, mircea; out the window
for it matters none upon which head it falls.
find solace in the chaotic nature of the world
and if you can't find solace;
playact the unmoored stone.
pretend to stand with your feet pointing forward
toward the oncoming waves; the whales; the women.
there's less than a hundred pages left, mircea
let the embers lull away
bring the backcover to rest.
Eric Subpar’s work has appeared in Hobart Pulp, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Apocalypse Confidential, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bruiser Magazine, and Blood+Honey. He is the author of the novel Ghouls in Love.