We Dance in the Twilight Meadow
And
Drop to the Grass along with the Petals
And
Last Call has been called at the Bar
So
You can Fall in the Midnight Hour at will

Uninspired

And lagging behind my forehead.
I can't find the right button to press.
It seems preferable to be a lab rat with nothing but a big red button to squeeze when you need your brain to get there

if I don't think about it.

When you know you are late to work
but let time hang loose from your body like an oversized suit regardless,
you are sure to open the floor of the earth and feel like a pervert.

Feet will try to scuttle you with haste across leaf painted pavements toward your occupation but, glancing at the bustle of similar people spread about, you now feel embarrassed.

So you force them to slow down, almost bringing yourself to a stubborn standstill. You can't stop entirely of course. The momentum of the merry-go-round would crush your organs against the stationary facade of your body in an instance, and there'd be no blood left at the back of your brain.

Hell rises on the back of a Hell-razor,
bursting through the skin of flowers.
I have long-since given up the dry shave of the cold edge INSTEAD opting for an electric experience...
buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
... like a band reaching lightspeed. Their infinite galloping spread across a night sky the size of an operating table for all the nice guys and doctors to see.
SEND 'EM ALL TO SEA, along with the electric razor and me.

I'm stumbling round the apartment like a ghost,
falling through doors; this way and that.

Each corner of my smile held up on whimsical stilts and my my my

aren't you so fine.

why spend time observing wretched things
when apartments bloom like sandcastles
in every trench - in all the concrete?

why languish in wretched things like
phantom-busting;
tail-chasing,
grape-avoiding,
ball-breaking the black box
or even ROYAL DECREES?

I leave the ice-cold bath, shivering into all my goose bumps. I put pink trousers over my broken knees and make my way on to the balcony. Our worries about hot water watches over some dialogue between two pigeons. They make good neighbours the way they know me.
Cold air on my bare feet mutes the tempestuous soul of the city. The final moves of the game are being played out there while I relax into my break. Eventually I move my bones inside, to my corner -

at the end of the world.