Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

IN WHICH WE TURN INTO CATS AFTER DARK & ALSO SOME OTHER STUFF HAPPENS

After trading in our awkward for the agility of the feline, we set out to investigate the delicate machinery of Night. It turns out Night has been singing all along & we just couldn’t hear it. It turns out Night is a bloody good singer & should go on X Factor performing Back to Black by Amy Winehouse, which the audience will dig, not just for the humour but because Damn, that Night’s got SOUL & Cheryl will cry but it’s okay because she anticipated this & she’s wearing waterproof mascara, & Simon’s eyes will turn to pound sterling signs rolling furiously in his skull like fruit machines in which all the fruit rots softly while you watch & swarms & swarms with legs & wings & compound eyes & the video will go viral & Night will even scroll through the comments one time but never again because wow people on the internet are mean & Do you wanna say that to my face, bitch!? & Night will do marginally well on the show but ultimately never be heard from again, which Night won’t mind because it turns out Night is actually its own country in our world, with its own language & its own X Factor. Sometimes, refugees arrive, blinking madly. We don’t know what to do with them. They don’t speak our language. They couldn’t tell you who won The X Factor.

 

mb3Maya Owen is perpetually curious, and fond of reading books in comfortable trees. Her work has appeared in The Electronic Encyclopedia of Experimental Literature, Leveler, and Little River, among others.

 

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Categories: Poetry, Pop Culture, Themed

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