these few presidents
wring disaster from decisiveness
like they're squeezing tar from a sponge.

three heads of state
and not a single solution
except the one that dissolves whatever it touches.

                 billy the kid, did what he did and he
                 died. billy the kid, did what he did
                 and he died. billy the kid did what
                 he died. billy the kid did what he
                 did and he died.
                  
                 nothing
                 to
                 help
                 before
                 he
                 *left

you are my universe
if my universe is an animal
and that animal is tearing a smaller creature apart with its teeth.

you are my world
if my world is just this room
and the door is constantly locked from the outside.

i cannot tell if this is asbestos or stardust -
- either way, i can't get it out of my eyes.

liquefied ivory trickles down the drain
picking out lavender to the sound of rain
/
back alley blues from the white picket fence
trade your broken heart for dollars and sense
/
the early morning glow is where uncertainties grow
as we dream our young dreams, static courses below
/
a muted flash of LED lights and i
view them like a dot painting across the night sky
/
please try not to crash your car
pull yourself out of the tar

So I'm sitting here, right?
Thinking of something to write.
It's not going very well, if I'm honest.

Like, I can't really think of something important to say...
Poems are meant to be poignant, though, aren't they?
Something worth time and effort, like a parable, or learning how to drive.

If you're interested, it hasn't been that long,
But I underestimated my own ability to shut down at will,
To run head first into dead-ends.

What is a poem, really?
That's not rhetorical, I am genuinely confused; my default state.
How many feet do I need in a line? I only have two to spare.

And if I give them away, how do I cross the finish line?
So I'm stressing over where to put the stresses
So my head's as blank as the verse in a Shakespeare play.

So I'm losing patience quickly, like a drunk doctor,
Or some similarly silly simile-slash-simulacrum,
Simulating the deepest of sympathies for myself.

Wait...Did I just do it? Did I just write a poem?
I think I did. I mean, I probably wasted your time in the process.
Sorry about that. Really, I am. How do I finish this?

Thanks for listening!
Wait, no...
The end!
No, hold on! I can do this...
Have a nice day!

Ah, whatever. You get the point.

the sweeping, disfigured noise
once a muddied succession of numbers (0101101, et cetera)

reconsidered

has long since made its home in a dream;
a blooming curlicue of letters (AECAAEGA, et cetera)

like the intimacy between pen pals.
like spinning plates.

My bedroom curtains,
Are a rich, Penfolds red.

Of which I am quite certain,
They hide the stage inside my head.

The unkempt bed, a centrepiece,
For every act of this here play.

My *******, my kingdom,
Come stay for one mere day.

Clouds are forming on the roof,
Some celestial being's frown.

Now it's raining in the arena,
So bring the curtains down.