you bought it all,
even the taxes.

why would you think
you could rest?

no reason to soften the blows now.
you're locked in. set to love your fate.

a cacophony, and I had to look it up, in your head.

you needn't tidy the swamp. the visitations are waning.

look at you twist, what?
like the moon?

your thoughts don't even
belong to the trees, (and you swoon?)

restless enough, for caterpillars,
you tread nothing.

deepen the lines, luv.
larks are for trespassers,

dump the lot.

maybe, I'm not really here,

maybe, you're not really there.

But I still just assume
forget your face-
a nuclear winter,
a desert for the alkie
hooked on water.

if I could only binary it
as it pops on a screen,
but my hand won't forget
the small of your back anyway-

Waistland.
You boiling water for spaghetti-
An eternity of my palm on your hip.

Yeah, this is as much a haunting
As the moon is a ghost,

no.

No Reaper,
Thus no ghost.

maybe I'm not really here,
but you are most certainly there,

the Immortal,
the Undead,

(strange I follow)    .

A little white ball, misshapen, waiting, on the floor.
Waiting for me. For how long, I couldn't say. Though I'm quite certain every so-called decision I've made in my life has led me to this very moment of noticing. Noticing a ball of cotton, waiting for action, from me.
The eternity I fall into after merely seeing it, is sufficient.
Bones sliding amid muscle, to bend, and there is no foreground, no background, no debt, no ex, no somethingness, no nothingness.
All comes to this,
to this non-action.

I retrieve it.

My ego finds its foot in the door.
And I don't quite whisper
to the little ball of cotton,

"That I might die with
a trace of humility,
that much even."

It's a shame that
both of us were pigeons.

It might have been better-
just one of us.

It doesn't matter now,
whether the rest of the world
were cars, or cats.

We ruled just
as we needed to.

Each of us
more Counter
than Captain.

she gross,
but I grosser,

will to take her back
as I would, in a
heartbeat

love,
hate,

a congress
of hypocrisies,

set upon cedar flakes,

and matchless.