Half of my life
ago
the head
of a friend
had soft madness
placed within
it

by a windscreen that met him
as he danced
in the street

after that
his words jarabled
and I don’t know
if he ever painted again

but as we are met
by horrendous days
and the intricacy of our life
is humbled, and humbled again
there is no where left to bleed;
and the breathing sound
of demanding nothing,
from anyone, at anytime
is better than asking
because if you’re there on time
when a possible drop
is there
you will be linked,
and your body
will work the rest out
by itself

all else is the smell of time
where she is most silent,
and has no smell,
evil changing
in a spray of perfume

where the chimera transforms
because the car is smooth
and sings in the works
humming a song after the crash

no-one knowing
what you’re really
singing,
it’s chosen
beneath your tongue
where nothing moves
if not shot in this ballroom
made of dust.