I whisper to you
             words that touch your body
                           teasing you with mentally
                                     enticing you physically
                                               holding your attention
                                                      like it was given to me.
                                                          Painting a picture so vividly;

I focus on my bank account
and not feeling alone.
The man in 1080p repeats,
'Where has my America gone?'
Fifty or sixty, and billionaire rich --
I guess I'm his working class *****.

Voting on how to
delude myself best;
I am part of a
dollar bill nest,
where I get to see
but don't get to touch,
where I get to give
but don't get too much.

i.

dusk melts into walls
and corners,
the sun begins to dip,
below the earth
little islands of
light and shadow.

ii.

the light softens,
carries us towards
the sentry keeper
of the blue earth
the night’s noble
gaze.

iii.

rose-wood and indigo,
immense cloud
washed-out like
faded denim,
stars in summer’s hollowy skies.

iv.

as dark as a tinted window
the land breaks free
from the sun, dissolves
into shadows bent
into a thousand shapes
and altitudes
like softening rivers
of the mind.

v.

uncovered, the night
forgets it flowers and its
prisms, relents to magical
seas of black ink.

I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
     at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
        caresses every
        blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
      filled with the nothing of
        resistance.

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
    anybody
     have the
      slightest idea
       of just how
        tiresome
         paying
          attention
           can be?

So let me go. So leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
        slip apart
        like
        cracked glass
          about to
          shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.
Hope
      is for people
             who have
                   flowers to grow.

In the dining hall
The men are fed
Each one staring
At the other's bread
Each one wishing
He had said
That which lived
In the other's head
No more time
And no more sound
Each one's eyeballs
Moving 'round
The meal is set
Their mouths grow wet
They gorge themselves on tender meat
Each one grows heavy in his seat
The sailors pay
A heavy toll
For that which they put in their bowl
A little meat
A little fish
Each man anchored
To his dish
Each one feeling
He's done well
When answering
The dinner bell
The meal is earned
The supper's bought
And each man sitting there
Thought not
They'd any more
Than they deserved

It was a dark night,
and the man laid along the road,
and the moon wasn't there,
but it never shown so bright,
He dreamed a dream,
But the sun shone,
and woke him anyway.