Best Free Verse Poems From Contemporary Poets: ” Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan “

Free Verse

    Oh no, not free verse. Gosh but, it’s not the end of the world if a poem doesn’t have end rhymes. An internal rhyme can cause just as much mischief if not more. And rhythm(?) — you’re not going to sing it out loud, are you?
    It’s not an ivy down-climbing crime if a poem is not abstract, not obtuse or loosely profound, or if it’s not approved by a fee University.
    Although, an occasional structured poem can occur with special permission and occur with the appropriate poetic license obtained from the secret authorities.

Douglas Gilbert

Wuhan Lab

[Now that it’s been established that Wuhan is the center of bio-weapons technology(by another name) implicitly supervised by the government, ‘accidental’ germ warfare can be said to have occurred. See:
The origin of COVID: Did people or nature open Pandora’s box at Wuhan? By Nicholas Wade | May 5, 2021].
    Grandma has a pen-pal who works in the Wuhan Lab who Grandma knew since the girl was a graduate student studying in the US.

Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan

In the clearings
hauntings inhere
dear unfinished things

They’ve finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

Grandma’s voice
screams in the night;
her pen pal is lost, yes

Grandma is dead.
her hair dresser too–
by video two funerals
and the autopsy is done
no toxins of the ordinary kind.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew her faux pas cinema
— been odd times.

Grandma had a Chinese pen pal
a foreign medical student
passing the USMLE
passing the TOEFL and everything.
Her friend’s now a doctor
now a scientist.

Many times
Grandma was down in a funk:
Something about the Great Depression,
the War and the slaughter again.

So many screams in the night:
“Where is my Wuhan doctor girl?”

There is so much beauty yet
in the quixotic world: the
flowers and designs
on the body bags.

Grandma told us
days never come lightly
when the night overwhelms
before the elegant cry

Such beauty in a sad world
my Grandma always said, is
just decoration, and
she favored flower designs
on chic shopping bags

Let the designers rise to the task
to make pretty body bags
to rise to praise, and yea
by the dawn’s surly knights
oh hey can you see our deeds
in the corona of the Sun
particles of sunset and doom.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma told wild stories.
Very entertaining. She was
not distant ever
regardless of rules

Grandma stabbed herself to death
with a scissor in a beauty salon, and
the owner was shot to death while
grabbing a policeman’s gun.
It’s the usual.

Grandma left me
a stack of papers
from the pal, now a doctor.
Grandma loved
her dear mystery friend
from Wuhan. She claimed
her friend worked in a laboratory.

I have the correspondence
written in Chinese, and
the blacklight she had
asked me to buy for her.

The letters came slowly
sometimes through Hong Kong
and Singapore, but sometimes
through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Grandma was fond
of her Wuhan girl
as she called her.

Just before her death
she reminded me that
it wasn’t important
to read the beautiful
Chinese calligraphy
because it was unimportant

It was important to read
the invisible secret writing
written between the lines.

Read in the dark
she had said.

New letters continued
to come from the
missing Wuhan girl.

I read them in the dark
with the Black Light.

Apparently, Wuhan girl is
patient zero for the world, and
they are hunting for her

They finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

Justin-horn and Un-Trudeau (Draft 1) Trucker Convoy, Canada

Hero Truckers in Solidarity (Draft 1)

Oh Canada, where’s a true doe?
we imitate a moose standing
in the headlights of truth
oh and Justin see the light

Like Lech Wałęsa in Poland who
conked out Soviets, so too see
honking truckin’ protest the untrue

Oh Untrue Deau doe
why’d you call us names…

we were truckin’ in the rain
and truckin’ in the plague

Basta! Enough!
Nous avons notre voyage.

An old man who honked his horn
was knocked down par les flics.
Le poulet thought ’twas
un phoque mignons

Sometimes in weary days
there’s just a tinhorn in our way
but we keep on truckin’ steely-eyed
and we don’t put up with just tin

Oh Untrue Deau doe
why’d you call us names…

we were truckin’ in the rain
and truckin’ in the plague

Litchi Regime

A more emotional version of the Wuhan Plague poems which maybe were too much like lectures, perhaps.

Oh citizen,
display your social demerits:

for the freeze police you’re a twisted Atheist
for your forgiveness you’re a Christian
and to learn and return you’re a Buddhist,
but just endure for now like a stoic soldier

Xiuying my love, listen —
It’s a secret but I heard
the children wail like adults,
saw a new born in the gutter

tighten your belt I’ve heard, and
the road to paradise extrudes cement

I know disasters open and close up, but
they’ve cemented Xiong’an’s door shut.

Olympics!
Hooray comrades!

I’ve seen the children sob though
a drunken teacher cries to them
that dynasties rise and fall, and

I’ve seen the Wuhan plague
and I’ve seen a Litchi reign. If
I could bolt with you on horseback
like in a Western
we’d ride at sunset.

I’ve seen the children sob, but
I cry to them like a drunken teacher:
play children, play for today’s laugh

alas, the nuts and bolts of empire
require tyrants to remain.

Behold their great gifts:
their Big Brother infrastructure,
their Marxist bridge to Armageddon

I’ve heard the word:
no one can leave his castle, nor
can she leave her palace
and children play with their
toy soldiers and dolls
with little food left at the door

Xiuying my love, if I were a drunken teacher
I’d tell you about this in a whisper that the
lock-down is courtesy of the Wuhan Lab
the pride of the nation, super science
for the belt and road to the foolish world
and see if you were to look —
see as the Romans and the Mongols did:
They came, they saw, they conquered, they
seized their rightful hegemony

Xiuying, you know
for the Olympics
our doors were sealed.

Many Millions were dead.
Of course —
That’s how it’s done

I’ve seen the Wuhan plague
and I’ve seen a Litchi reign

Nuts to all, and
Xiuying, let us perish like
terra cotta warriors unearthed
and glad to see the sunset

Oh My Cron: Banned from the Palace (Draft 7)

Princess Beast
[Oh My Cron (7)]
    by Alice

In fat assignments
I explain death or not.

Oh hell, because
this muddy muddled mind puddle
is like a dark pudding, I cry out in

my lugubrious night where I
fatten up with empty words, but

I have my vocabulary list to learn
and my last will to write.

A girl in her ugliness
can be a beast, and

I have been condemned
to a plague of loneliness
by an evil milieu

It is an elite rule:
the beautiful witches and warlocks
possess the favors and powers

But from their palaces
in holly woods and
from party districts
come many sycophants
to mandate loneliness
in loco parentis

I am a beast girl
in a shanty castle
without magic powers

I write this letter for Stacey
because I smashed my keyboard:

Why a death chord? Because…

there had been mocking awes
in every voiced pshaw
smirking behind a mask;
I could hear their snide smile
rubbing against the cloth

It’s not just that I’m fat and ugly.
Oh My Cron, I’m beastly

OMC Stacey, I got banned
for the humanized mice comment…
Mu, Nu, Xi
OMC! Burn my Prom Dress
Zoom zone me out.

Yeah, I’m a dissident variant, but
it’s not only just, OMG, ha, my
muumuu dress dance with ukulele
got banned from Me-meTube; it’s
not just an Aloha

Got banned from Spacey Bookie too
and from the Ticks
of skewed life. Failed school.

School is a place of hurt
anyway. Shouldn’t be
anymore children born
like me, fat Alice abysmal.
I am a beast without magic.

Burn my Prom Dress ’cause
I have never danced, though

even I was at THE party, but
they hated me, and I
eyed a pill on the floor,
and saw it on the news
so I knew its deadly ruse
when I saved it.

Give out my other letters.
Tell my Mom it was an accident.
Burn my Prom Dress, but my death
wasn’t an accident, it was Science
and Chemistry by the evil, though
they did me a favor.

Remember two years ago?
Yeah, actually, I liked
math and pi and pie, ’cause
my math and science teachers’ chats
were so cool and hot like STEM trends,
hot trends for girls in space, yeah, and
bio lab rats and stuff like that.

Everyone had always known
I was fat and ugly, but
they lie like science lies. It’s a
lie world. It’s
about dead lab rats and mice
and re-education camps
and slave labor and death.
It is a world of tyrants,
of dark pudding witches
and princely warlocks

Didn’t think I’d fail science, just because
the teachers were afraid to teach or something
and they were under an evil spell.

I would have learned it as my own blend
if I were brilliant and didn’t need a teacher
didn’t need a boyfriend, didn’t need a friend.
I would need a magic wand and a frog Prince

I failed science alone because
I had been fat and ugly and too stupid
to have figured out the truth on my own. Yeah, and
Brandon got myocarditis from a booster.

I’m sorry I told you Brandon
was a good guy. He was shy,
nice to me, didn’t know you’d bleed
when he joined the rapeseed club. Didn’t
know it wasn’t about Botany, and I think
Science is evil now without good seeds.

All those humanized mice and puppies, and
I think I was ‘barking up the wrong tree’.
The RNA has jumped from tree to tree,
and the dogs are lost.

So Science is a political sport not for girls
(or me anyway), renamed fats and oil
in unctuous lies and taunts, and so

Even after another lab leak,
they’re hiding the therapeutics…

My favorite cousins were teased on Spacey Bookie:
labeled obese beasts
and they died without the virus pill.
No therapeutic cry and I miss them.

I could have done a crash diet, but
I swallowed the pill from the floor.

I’m sorry. Give out the other letters.

I’m sorry to leave you behind
to suffer through the Armageddon.
I hope you got the abortion.

All I want is chocolate pudding,
and a masterpiece.

Bureaucracy Knows Best

Occupational Hazards When Sleeping Too Long (Draft 1)

I don’t eat food anymore
because of my rap sheet.

Y’know
sleeping long is
a hazard, and I had
woken up with cravings.

When I
had gone
to the supermarket,
there were new signs:
signs of weirdness

WARNING:
THE ENTRANCE PLATFORM
IS A WEIGHT SCALE.

NOTICE:
FACIAL RECOGNITION
AND HEIGHT MEASUREMENTS
ARE PERFORMED

A guard at the door
scanned my ID

I picked up
a giant bag of potato chips,
a half gallon of ice cream, and
a strawberry short cake.
An alarm bell went off.

Lifting me off the ground
four OSHA guards seized me
and carried me backwards
to a chair where
my arms were
strapped down
palms up.

A nurse jabbed a vein
and took two vials of blood

A computer made announcements:
BODY MASS INDEX UNACCEPTABLE.
VACCINATIONS NOT ON RECORD.

A clerk:
DO YOU HAVE A CAKE LICENSE?
UM. OBVIOUSLY NOT. YES THEN,
I HEREBY DECLARE: YOUR
FOOD AND HEALTHCARE LICENSES
ARE REVOKED. REMOVE HIM.

Before throwing me out of the store,
they jabbed my shoulders with vaccinations.

I was disinclined to go to that store again, so
I found a small store nearby.

I got my food to the check-out counter, and
the clerk said, “You don’t have a food license
so I’m not allowed to sell you any food. Please leave.”

I regret that then I had gone
to a liquor store
where they had cookies under the table.
Undercover police arrested us both.

I had amassed quite the rap sheet, so
I had learned to catch pigeons in the park
and boil them in lake water with a twig-and-leaf fire

But a different Winter
hasn’t been authorized
and the snow covers everything

I don’t eat food anymore.

Sleeping long is
dangerous. I will
leave my hazardous body
to a snow grave, and leave
the chattering squirrels
to give my eulogy.

Oh My Cron and Bamboozle: I Got Banned (Draft 6)

Oh My Cron (6)
    by Alice

A written letter for Stacey
because I smashed my keyboard:

Why a death chord? Because…

there had been mocking awes
in every voiced pshaw
smirking behind a mask;
I could hear their snide smile
rubbing against the cloth

It’s not just that I’m fat and ugly.
Oh My Cron.

OMC Stacey, I got banned
for the humanized mice comment…
Mu, Nu, Xi
OMC! Burn my Prom Dress
Zoom zone me out.

Yeah, I’m a dissident variant, but
it’s not only just, OMG, ha, my
muumuu dress dance with ukulele
got banned from Me-meTube; it’s
not just an Aloha

Got banned from Spacey Bookie too
and from the Ticks
of skewed life. Failed school.

School is a place of hurt
anyway. Shouldn’t be
anymore children born
like me, fat Alice abysmal

Burn my Prom Dress ’cause
I have never danced, though

even I was at THE party, but
they hated me, and I
eyed a pill on the floor,
and saw it on the news
so I knew its deadly ruse
when I saved it.

Give out my other letters.
Tell my Mom it was an accident.
Burn my Prom Dress, but my death
wasn’t an accident, it was Science
and Chemistry by the evil, though
they did me a favor.

Remember two years ago?
Yeah, actually, I liked
math and pi and pie, ’cause
my math and science teachers’ chats
were so cool and hot like STEM trends,
hot trends for girls in space, yeah, and
bio lab rats and stuff like that.

Everyone had always known
I was fat and ugly, but
they lie like science lies. It’s a
lie world. It’s
about dead lab rats and mice
and re-education camps
and slave labor and death

Didn’t think I’d fail science, just because
the teachers were afraid to teach or something

I would have learned it as my own blend
if I were brilliant and didn’t need a teacher
didn’t need a boyfriend, didn’t need a friend

I failed science alone because
I had been fat and ugly and too stupid
to have figured out the truth on my own. Yeah, and
Brandon got myocarditis from a booster.

I’m sorry I told you Brandon
was a good guy. He was shy,
nice to me, didn’t know you’d bleed
when he joined the rapeseed club. Didn’t
know it wasn’t about Botany, and I think
Science is evil now without good seeds.

All those humanized mice and puppies, and
I think I was ‘barking up the wrong tree’.

So Science is a political sport not for girls
(or me anyway), renamed fats and oil
in unctuous lies and taunts, and so

Even after another lab leak,
they’re hiding the therapeutics…

My favorite cousins were teased on Spacey Bookie:
labeled obese beasts
and they died without the virus pill.
No therapeutic cry and I miss them.

I could have done a crash diet, but
I swallowed the pill from the floor.

I’m sorry. Give out the other letters.

I’m sorry to leave you behind
to suffer through the Armageddon.
I hope you got the abortion.

Oh My Cron & Bamboozle: I Got Banned (Draft 1)

Oh My Cron
    by Alice

It’s not just that I’m fat and ugly.
Oh My Cron.

OMC Stacey, I got banned
for the humanized mice comment…
Mu, Nu, Xi
OMC! Burn my Prom Dress
Zoom zone me out.

Yeah, I’m a dissident variant, but
it’s not only just, OMG, ha, my
muumuu dress dance with ukulele
got banned from Me-meTube; it’s
not just an Aloha

Got banned from Spacey Bookie too
and from the Ticks
of life. Failed school.

Went to THE party
found a pill on the floor,
and saw it on the news
so I knew exactly
what it was when I saved it.

Give out my other letters.
Tell my Mom it was an accident.
Burn my Prom Dress, but
it wasn’t an accident.

Remember two years ago?
Yeah, actually, I liked
math and pi and pie, ’cause
my math and science teachers
were so cool and hot like STEM trends
hot trends for girls in space, yeah, and
bio lab rats and stuff.

Everyone knows
I was fat and ugly when I was alive
but they lie like science lies. It’s a
lie world. It’s
about dead lab rats and mice
and re-education camps
and slave labor and death

Didn’t think I’d fail science, ’cause
the teachers would be afraid to teacher or something
or I’m stupid and fat and ugly and all that.
Brandon got myocarditis from a booster.

I’m sorry I told you Brandon
was a good guy. He was shy,
nice to me, didn’t know
he’d join the rapeseed club for you.
Didn’t know it wasn’t about Botany, and
I think Science is evil now without good seeds.

All those humanized mice and puppies, and
I think I was ‘barking up the wrong tree’.

I could have done a crash diet, but
I took the pill from the floor.

I’m sorry. Give out the other letters.

I’m sorry to leave you behind
to suffer through the Armageddon.
I hope you got the abortion.

Masking Randi Winegarden, the Marxist

Puttting young children in masks is a form of child abuse. The Diseased Centers for Viral Propaganda and Control (DCVPC) are taking their orders from the Queen of the Wine Garden. The DCVPC is demanding that kids be masked. The evidence shows that kids are not at risk from the you-know-what, and they don’t spread it to the community. Crazy bureaucrats and journalists are wrong to say kids are arrows of outrageous disease misfortune. Masking is just part of Critical Orchid Theory. But there is the mask of crisis and manipulation.*

The Depravity of a Union Teacher

Depravity
would be seen
as unforeseen
consequences:
a union of travesty
gravity
and dirt

The botanist had had a child in school.
Had sad time off; there’d be time too
for the funeral soon. There would be

blood in the kitchen, a kind of
spilled wine in the garden for
teachers of the vineyard who demanded
more whine privilege than little giggling
girls like her precious Randi used to be,
but Ms. Big Union Randi W. had

demanded masked smiles until doom,
more rules for tiny children in a classroom.

The botanist had
more time off from work for the funeral.

Walking in a hellish haze
the botanist felt nauseous
along the way from the smell
of her daughter’s favorite flowers

far afield she wandered
drifting in a fog, in a
random eternal pattern
to reach the ceremony
of the grave; had a thought
(Little Randi’s vision
made her cry)

She was startled by a reporter. Blurted:
“yes, I am certain that
the teacher is an idiot.

“You want to know? You know…
My little Randi darling flower spirit
was precocious ‘once upon a time’
before a teacher tore her petals off”

This Mom was a little nauseous
smelling her daughter’s favorite flowers
as she walked in a daze remembering

far afield she wandered in a trance
yet jolted by the voice persisting;
replied:

“Yes, I’m sure
it was suicide.
You want to know? You know…
my child vomited in her mask,
and the teacher wouldn’t… (you know)
she came home; said school was fine —
the usual kid denial, and the
counselor said don’t worry

“Yes, you know the story —
report it.”

Far afield she wandered in a trance
yet jolted by the voice persisting; replied
“the nurse said it was nothing”

she smelled the flowers

The reporter fell backwards
when she vomited on him, and
she enabled his fall over
the unmasked cliff
with prejudice.

Startled, she turned around to
walk home, so as to smell
the corpse flower, and to
join her daughter with a plunge of
a kitchen knife into her own heart.
    ———–
A Randy Wine Garden of Science

It was the year of plagues,
the year of science.
Fairy tales for children.

Dense withered science,
weathered propaganda
in spirit false, twisted.

Some weathered the year,
some did not: a tear in a
pedagogy climate of fear.

An affront to data, dithers
in logic: twisted science.

Remote Learning,
a few kid suicides, rare

like rain in the desert, but
a science dessert for the
insipid statistical sips
of statistical fruit

Death is usually not literal
in a year of pedagogic abuse, but
withering glance blows slapped the day
with many seizures in a plague year.

It was a year when
the snide videos
proved the teachers
hated the parents

It was a year of ominous noise,
a year of doom dust and ash,
a smell of sulfur when crows
pecked at eggs and left them

Natural became supernatural.
Evil forces prevailed.

Coming from the ground, far under,
were odd humming and rumbling sounds

those evil sounds were underground like
a swarm of crashing freight trains deep below
like gigantic humming birds as big
flapping their wings like manic dinosaurs
and like angry moose fighting with the Devil

It was a year of strangeness
and a year of hope.

But there were two omens. One was

the cicadas came twice in one year —
once in Spring and once in Fall

the other was that
the rare biting incidents in pre-school
became numerous in the upper grades.

Well actually, more than two omens.
And the mayor was perturbed by
the rumors of
real werewolves, zombies
and Devil worshipers
after the theater re-opened.

Maybe those were not omens
but hysteria or tension.

The snide videos
proved the teachers
hated the parents, and
especially me. Disturbed,
board meetings were
pointless and strange.

When
I caught Mary’s teacher
berating my child
in a zoom style thing,
I began my research
on a curse. Nothing
was off the table

My child was an odd goldenrod
and the teachers hated her flowering
even after her death.

When the UFOs came again
and abducted a crazy teacher
we, parents, were not offended.

Picking off the teachers
of the Wine Garden club
was a deserved drubbing
‘cause the aliens had a
purpose for them: needed
them for a scientific study.

The parents were glad, and
there were more important things
than the hopelessly pedantic.

It was a strange year
seared in weird, but cold.

School resumed in the fall
five days-a-week
full time, but appalling
and it was too late
for golden Mary

Mary had had a little lamb.
It was a strange year
seared in weird; disturbing
without a noble shepherd

In the fall
I visited Mary
in the cemetery, but
her grave was disturbed

When Mrs. Marxwagon,
Mary’s dreaded teacher, said
she would sue me in court
for placing a curse on her face
(not a known legal charge),
I laughed as if the Devil courted her.

I told her
if the lamb bothers you,
eat it.

The Center for Propaganda Control (CPC)
said the outbreak looked like rabies.

I don’t know why
I wished Mary would be alive —
I thought it was a harmless thought
and the visions were delusional from grief.

The nightmare was so real, and
and I woke up hearing myself scream —
I saw Mary walking to school, and
she said, Mommy, I failed the test.

I ignored the humming sound
and I got into my car, but
the lightning was so angry, and
the rain was intense, the cicadas
rose from the ground and the birds
ate as many as they could, and there
was the stench of death and decay
in the eerie fear invading my soul;
in panic I drove to school to see
if Mary was there and desperately
I loved her still, and thought perhaps
like a miracle she was alive, and
passing her tests like
a good little girl
so precious and pure

The authorities were busy
in the front of the school
surrounding the UFOs

I climbed a tree and
jumped onto
the roof of the school.
The cicadas were
crawling all over, and
the birds were swarming.

I came down the stairs.
I saw Mary.

She and the other
dead children
were eating their teachers.

It was a good day.
The authorities
stormed the building.

The aliens vaporized them all.
I suppose they’re friendly, because
they follow the pedantic science.

*Masking kids and closing schools is irrational, unscientific child abuse

A Randy Wine Garden of Science [The Souls of Children Died in the Wine Garden (Draft 5)]

It was the year of plagues,
the year of science.
Fairy tales for children.

Dense withered science,
weathered propaganda
in spirit false, twisted.

Some weathered the year,
some did not: a tear in a
pedagogy climate of fear.

An affront to data, dithers
in logic: twisted science.

Remote Learning,
a few kid suicides, rare

like rain in the desert, but
a science dessert for the
insipid statistical sips
of statistical fruit

Death is usually not literal
in a year of pedagogic abuse, but
withering glance blows slapped the day
with many seizures in a plague year.

It was a year when
the snide videos
proved the teachers
hated the parents

It was a year of ominous noise,
a year of doom dust and ash,
a smell of sulfur when crows
pecked at eggs and left them

Natural became supernatural.
Evil forces prevailed.

Coming from the ground, far under,
were odd humming and rumbling sounds

those evil sounds were underground like
a swarm of crashing freight trains deep below
like gigantic humming birds as big
flapping their wings like manic dinosaurs
and like angry moose fighting with the Devil

It was a year of strangeness
and a year of hope.

But there were two omens. One was

the cicadas came twice in one year —
once in Spring and once in Fall

the other was that
the rare biting incidents in pre-school
became numerous in the upper grades.

Well actually, more than two omens.
And the mayor was perturbed by
the rumors of
real werewolves, zombies
and Devil worshipers
after the theater re-opened.

Maybe those were not omens
but hysteria or tension.

The snide videos
proved the teachers
hated the parents, and
especially me. Disturbed,
board meetings were
pointless and strange.

When
I caught Mary’s teacher
berating my child
in a zoom style thing,
I began my research
on a curse. Nothing
was off the table

My child was an odd goldenrod
and the teachers hated her flowering
even after her death.

When the UFOs came again
and abducted a crazy teacher
we, parents, were not offended.

Picking off the teachers
of the Wine Garden club
was a deserved drubbing
‘cause the aliens had a
purpose for them: needed
them for a scientific study.

The parents were glad, and
there were more important things
than the hopelessly pedantic.

It was a strange year
seared in weird, but cold.

School resumed in the fall
five days-a-week
full time, but appalling
and it was too late
for golden Mary

Mary had had a little lamb.

It was a strange year
seared in weird; disturbing
without a noble shepherd

In the fall
I visited Mary
in the cemetery, but
her grave was disturbed

When Mrs. Marxwagon,
Mary’s dreaded teacher, said
she would sue me in court
for placing a curse on her face
(not a known legal charge),
I laughed as if the Devil courted her.

I told her
if the lamb bothers you,
eat it.

The Center for Propaganda Control (CPC)
said the outbreak looked like rabies.

I don’t know why
I wished Mary would be alive —
I thought it was a harmless thought
and the visions were delusional from grief.

The nightmare was so real, and
and I woke up hearing myself scream —
I saw Mary walking to school, and
she said, Mommy, I failed the test.

I ignored the humming sound
and I got into my car, but
the lightning was so angry, and
the rain was intense, the cicadas
rose from the ground and the birds
ate as many as they could, and there
was the stench of death and decay
in the eerie fear invading my soul;
in panic I drove to school to see
if Mary was there and desperately
I loved her still, and thought perhaps
like a miracle she was alive, and
passing her tests like
a good little girl
so precious and pure

The authorities were busy
in the front of the school
surrounding the UFOs

I climbed a tree and
jumped onto
the roof of the school.
The cicadas were
crawling all over, and
the birds were swarming.

I came down the stairs.
I saw Mary.

She and the other
dead children
were eating their teachers.

It was a good day.
The authorities
stormed the building.

The aliens vaporized them all.
I suppose they’re friendly, because
they follow the pedantic science.

Wuhan Girl

Wuhan girl, won’t you come out to light
come out for sighting
come out for citing?
Lab girl won’t you show a tiny crown
yes, dance with a crown, but
dance with a bat to dumbfound

We heard she went to market
early as a target
with a hole in her mask

not such an easy task to escape
if the secret police can make you, Shi
Shì de, qīn’ài de,
well duh
just simple to confess and die
with your lab confessor at your side

Wuhan girl, won’t you come out to light
come out for citing
come out delighting, shi! my love
or is it that in “gain of function”
you have died kissing crowns of bats
———-
*Shì de, qīn’ài de
Yes, my love
[she duh she nigh duh]
是的,亲爱的