Disenchanted Evening

by T.J. Masluk

for Kafka

In the wards,

sleep Gurdjieff would appreciate.

Have I awakened in a dark wood?

In streets and narrow alleyways,

by light of a ragged moon,

noctambulists shuffle about

unredeemed,

fugue-fingering.

In the marketplace,

men with flaccid droop

and Rx script

opt for blue-diamond bliss

(“Honey, this should fix

our problem”).

The world is ablaze!

Girls in thick makeup and cheap perfume

prattle on,

boys tattooed wither in waste,

needle in arm.

Everywhere you go –

touchscreens and talking machines;

mechanical eyes.

So many tinted windows

in cars,

bolted locks

and loaded guns,

familiar faces

all gone.