Samsara on it's head.
my kind of victory
is a wine glass
on it's side
rolling through
cheap cabernet
and then off the table.

Freddie Freeloader
blaring,
filling the room
with an air that feels like
a hundred frightened rabbits.

wine glass shatters,
no rabbits running;
the cabernet
and my feet
tap tap tapping
the floor.

if you ever want to talk
about Baudelaire
or greenhouses
then I'm your man.

I've clenched my fist enough
in this life.

so have you.

even sorrow solemnly
follows the solace seeking
masses;
I'm last on every list,
ever.

is that enough?
is that the rough of it?

whispers disappear into
the sound of the shower.

"council house and violent"
is the the greatest line
ive ever felt shudder up
my hollow spine.

might mix the midland
with wilting.
silk screen a t-shirt or two,
features are diffused;
streetlights through rush-hour windshields.

but hollow spines though.

sidewalks;
the blood stretching from
my open chest to
Port-au-Prince
and back again.

I fractal out under the
afternoon moon.

born dead,
I leave it at lore on
a doorstep;
force left me in the street.

I need this;
promises.
homage paid
to the whole
"ostrich with it's head
in the sand" motif.

I hope grief remembers my name.

ephemera,
éphémère,
let's talk it out.
its chalk outlines looking
like milk in the rain, remember?

I'm here.
my flesh searing on
a grill more alabaster
than aluminum.

I'm used to "done" as a theme.
keep that to yourself.