A poor historian in imperial ruin
Pieced together histories made from fragments and unpainted marble
——————————————————————————————
“We used to have fun”
“You’ve had too much to think” she says as she takes away keys
——————————————————————————————
Echoes in an empty hall

“Ceremonies?”
“Any movement at all?”

Dust settles in the palms of motionless hands

red straps across the back
lashes delicately placed across desires -
far too engrossing for the average passerby

draw it in, blow it out, drained

none of it has any bearing on my longevity in bed

A return to these streets
Not to understand the incomprehensible void
Of lost time
Or because of duty bound marks
Left by chains
But for debts yet paid
In full to the ghosts
Which hold the self ransom

“Always remember that you matter, if only as a personalized scream into the chasm of existence”

————————————————————-

They’re all quite terribly polite, these places that carry the impeccable secrecy of your friends in a crowd

————————————————————-

“I watched those rodents grow maturely anthropomorphic and all I learned was that telephones have data plans”

this man’s been gone to ground
a while,
and earlier i’d seen him
smoking something
out from his pen
[a contraption of deceit
like the photo
he carries of himself
from 1960]
place bets: he was exciting!
a real man
of daring-do! of action!
no doubt he had
his fill of women in his day!
why he gropes at them still
despite his wizened form of head