I don't write like I used to -
using excuses, like
"These are the times you write about" -
but it doesn't come, the pen has dried
the thoughts have drifted out to sea
out to pasture - off to sleep for eternity -
I don't taste food much these days,
I usually push it past my tongue deep into
my stomach like fodder into a furnace, crackling flames
boiling my voice box, wooden bones, I don't have much to say
Too much I feel lost, wasted space in a crowded room
I don't call you in this cold war, and the phone won't ring
I don't call you in this cold war, and the phone won't ring.