My flesh lies on the table
disconnected eyes linger and
detach as I stare in distance.

I am not here, wasted.
Hexed, broken mired in
blackness, darkness,
Gothic daydreams.

I like to stare at ceilings
and invent something between
minutes of gaze, sheltered haze.

Not living nor dead, wasted
depressed, condensed distance,
broken dreams, self loathing -
the yawns from the corner are bothersome.

I lie on the table, I am gluttonous
and well lived, dead alive zombie tree;
Beer and coffee have been my companions
in this forest of blowing leaves, with
the carcass of the sheep blistering the road.

I slumber, I wake, burning blizzard eye
sigh sigh sigh, cracking lies and digested
metaphor, perception of bore, moaning mire.

What a waste, writing in haste one's one
memorium, wake up and do something
poet. Live, or die, just do it well.