I’ve let my finger nails grow,
A direct consequence of my unconscious burdens;
Does the weatherman know, Whether
the solstice will reign in full glory,
Or do I ponder this with my own leather-tanned skin, and unshaven neck,
If my peeling shoulders will feel the curt embrace of an August rainfall.

Pervasive yet persuasive,
As I inhale the cigarette smoke,
Ready to abandon my principles, I—
“Turn towards the door; party’s over.”
Too bad I don’t feel it kicking in, yet.
Yellow cabs captured in my sepia/****** lens;

Gritting my teeth, blood rushes to my jaw.
It always happens, and I announce that I’m drunk.
Reassure me; tell me I’m not a nuisance.
Let me hold your hand, please.

Gnosticism is my current question
Rummaging through the fabric of time
Every rip leads me to my childhood bedroom
Empty toy boxes toppled over, uniformly
Newborn cries painted onto this plane

Christian doctrines and hyper-pop
Radical leftists holding onto rosaries
At last, unity? Or performance?
Time, time, time—fleeting as always
Even as I contemplate these green crates
Stacked atop the black ones

Grass strands braided into your blonde hair;
Overtures of a silent sunrise emanate from your pores.
Perhaps this is us? Where—
Heathens roam Victorian streets in
Elegiac fashion.
Rivers and
Streams form at the corners of my eyes now.

Kept under your bed is a rope of dried twigs,
Elderflower and lemongrass,
Exudes from the chipping paint.
Go, now;
Away from those who remember you leaning upon the neighbourhood postbox,
Next time, I’ll have younger skin.