This mind is *****. Squalid.
I will begrudge it no more. I will swallow it whole,
I will follow it's role and dole out a more subtle close;
panelling the house, my cloth, I will bite into the pocket
wet from being searched for a stub or a roll
of cash forgotten to be spent and crumpled in a ball-
certainly withdrawn, a familiar accident of being thrown up
by the morning into the next day, into the next day, overall
a complete moronic dire wolf, a wire coil that slips between
shoes and causes a fall, like an omelet on a pan
(but I've run out of salt, chili, onions); waste of direction,
waste of selection, an eviction that tragedizes the *******
of a cause. No better to detonate- and let suffer the dogs-
or digest- and let suffer the bogs- but the only course left
is to study or perform,
unequivocally; supposed a dynamite tick-tock in the soul
is there's any worth left in it to mould into something
that can find a format for itself or a voice without a drawl,
a voice unlike mine, which can halt without a pause,
which can exalt without a cross,
which can vault without a loss.