I once had this friend, see
and I was as much him, as he me.
And we’d laugh, and cry and dodge the stars,
weaving in and out of love,
fight and ****, and long to starve,
hoping one more would be enough.
I only really remember him, me,
because he saw things I’d never seen.
Things you can’t tell people:
they just look at you like an animal;
something wild, and crazed, and raw.
And you say,
“Mainly, he used to sit, funny,
like something that mattered was coming,
all on edge, leaning forward,
perched between paramours and providence.
And his eyes,
My Eyes,
Would scan ahead, and roll
dully in the sockets.
And it seemed
(or so I was told, after and before and all at once),
that he, I, was about to pounce,
And tear at the flesh-
And rip at the bone-
And scream at the sinew,
carnal and callous fates.
But every time, beyond the guile,
Little more than a lamb; docile.
nobody moved.
And He,
and I,
would just sit there,
watching out for a lullaby”.


The audience will laugh,
And think you mad.