Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

The cause of utility passed over his wardrobe. Not even intent. Pants, but falling. Constantly falling, a waterfall of pants, a cascade, a cataract of pants. Knocking at hell. The fall of pants. The snake. The fruit. The shame. The exile. The flight if only flight were possible. But whereto flee exiled from bliss with ankles bound by infernal pants. Flight eludes the hapless and one must sit, one most pause, one must wait for a more competent evil while the hapless one shuffles from the stage. So dies a sort of monster its torrid panting master slain, itself slain, its master slain. It is not even any particular length.