I slept with the light still on and
with a twenty-cent piece
stuck to the skin of my side,
my dreams, all excavated from this
bull
****
night
in which I keep making a fool of myself,

like all these constricted alleyways,
painted with my partial sadnesses.

all the silver linings are still
just the colour of bile.

no more can I remember what
I dreamt of;
I don't even know what I believe,
even so, I'll just keep slurring these words,
just,

falling further down
and down again.

awash with the malice of three hundred
unassuming passers-by,
this abandoned night
crawls silently
and spills its guts lengthways,

so that I must drag myself along,
through this pit of churning lament
I could never quite get out of,
and

the stars above kick dust;
twinkling out,
one by one.