The first five lines are always shit.
A shock to the heart. Heartbeats cut each other off
like fine gems, end over endocarditis. No joke, perhaps
hyperbole? Though believe me when I say
the brow may be the only honest muscle in my face.
Such to the simple thing, such to the sin,
such please, such pause, such gilded resin,
such skin on skin, such fun, such
liquid off the fin, such fresh
splash, such flower pluck, such
freeform folly, such such-&-such.
Dearly departed, beloved
with bedevilments: bon voyage.
To have stolen. To steal oneself
away. To steel oneself. To cut out
early. Beg your pardon? Come again.
Know thyself. To thine own, be true.
If I’m being honest, I’m not a fan
of those who say, If I’m being honest.
No. Justice? No. Peace?
No. Just do it. Whatever it is, or was,
you had, or have, to do.
Peace be with you. Peace out.
R.J. Lambert (he, him, his) is an award-winning queer writer with recent poems in Denver Quarterly, New Letters, Superstition Review, and The Ilanot Review. His debut collection, Mind Lit in Neon, is newly available from Finishing Line Press. R.J. teaches writing at the Medical University of South Carolina and is online at rj-lambert.com or @SoyRJ.