I slept with the light still on and
with a twenty-cent piece
stuck to the skin of my side,
my dreams, all excavated from this
bull
****
night
in which I keep making a fool of myself,

like all these constricted alleyways,
painted with my partial sadnesses.

all the silver linings are still
just the colour of bile.

no more can I remember what
I dreamt of;
I don't even know what I believe,
even so, I'll just keep slurring these words,
just,

falling further down
and down again.

awash with the malice of three hundred
unassuming passers-by,
this abandoned night
crawls silently
and spills its guts lengthways,

so that I must drag myself along,
through this pit of churning lament
I could never quite get out of,
and

the stars above kick dust;
twinkling out,
one by one.

meticulously placed traps
line the sidewalks and the
kitchen floors,
like tar,
coating the layer of sentiments
I probably feel,
and should probably say,
but, oh, how plain simplicity
in affairs
eludes my existence

as I see, out through
the window, to a pile of
dismembered and decaying twigs,
leaves, golden death like
the petals circling my aortae,
that once grew fondly
in presence of
possibilities and opportunities;
to the extent that god only knows (except for you)
how impossibly awful I am,
when it comes to
making the most rudimentary
decisions

only figuring out what I
want, when the options have
dried up
and the puddles
from the storm have
dried out

snared right down into
the hollow grimace of
all these **** traps I keep
throwing down
for my own cruel self.