Remember standing outside
the Mountain of Clouds
waiting on the bus to arrive,
and thinking:

“How the **** did we get here?”

There’s always a point
where the tree trunk ends
and the branches go on,
no matter how high it reaches.

I'm not sure if I’ve ever told you
this one before,
but a while back
Sentimental Stevie took my hand
in the snug
and confessed his lunacy to me.

The ash built up fast
then dropped to the red sand stone
beneath my suede boots
where I had to admit my age,
finally.

The smoke tastes
like burnt Strawberry
and lingers in the crevasses
of my meridian mouth
before I succumb to the image
in his head.

Anyway,
now we’re one week on
and I’m no further on
with finding out
if I belong,
or if that even matters
when you pull out the map
and lay it across the glovebox,

so I guess
I brought that place up,
that musky Titanium white room
filled with love and doom,
and all things good
because

I'm not dead yet.