I am encouraged by the middle-aged woman
who still believes that I am hard at work,
as I digest my latest beer.

The blonde Russian gives hope to me.
She gives me a consequential look of interest,
and I'm suddenly reminded of my youth.

There is no sexlessness in flesh.
It comes with the freckles,
scaling melodies across naked thighs.

I am kissing the Russian on the mouth,
as I hold onto her cheek,
as I pass by her on the bus.

Where is this welcomed doorway kiss?
Where is this elderly love?
I want to share with you, my garden,
I want to eat with you, our feast.

This atmosphere is thin,
and all passions hollow out
in this echo chamber of half-truths.

I have played out these lines,
these humble melodies,
and yet still end up in a writer's demise.

I am half-drunk and half-******,
with fake whiskey sours and downloaded bliss;
fragments of a slower pace of life.

This old soul, he troubles to breathe,
he wades on through discarded thoughts,
and lives within captivity.

I am living life above the chimney tops.
I am a beckoning haze
for the clouds above,

I am killing love in all maturation,
I am blitzing the market,
I am starving a nation.