i endeavour to burst
my glum queasy organs
by binging on the sun;
like a fattened sow
that wobbles to slop
against the mist of *****

i'll **** the lemon hard
mouth spasming with beams  
till the rinds soak up my gums
where the nihilism clots
like plaque around a tooth  
fouling up my lunch

maybe i'll explode
across a hopscotch grid
they can twist my guts for rope  
and the sticky sun will mop me up
sour blood to goddess rust
now that's what hope feels like,
i'm sure.

today i am
my own conjoined twin
ribcage aching where i've stuck myself
with desperate thumbtacks to the illusory
ever-flowering concept board of "i"
to save them the trouble of bleaching
my soaking contradictions from the
carpet that makes my elbows itch

sleeping syrup tiptoes on the brain
but if you drink that, you can't have ***
now that would be a tragedy
not getting drunk alone in 30 degree weather
to write unintelligible psalms to friends
imagine that

so with one arm at the equator
in the moulting, drooling sun
and one closer to the bed
in some casual western Spring
i try to balance myself
with this sad little twin
forgetting, for a second,
which one is me,
a little too painfully
awake