There is no genius here,
only mental illness conveyed
in an eloquent turn of phrase.
A Christmas Nativity in August
begins, with a topical birth
of a commonplace bride,
told that purity is
some form of ribbon
that is to be cast aside
upon the briefest love for a man.

We feel a tiredness beyond memory.
Memory of when it set in,
or how long it can be slept off
before sleep becomes the problem itself.

The choir sings in broken melody.
Fat faces that glow in spotlight,
dreaming for a future in film,
in a town built for passing things by.

There is no coastline here,
no way to look beyond road strips
and broken-down shop-fronts.
All we can do is keep on waking each day,
stirring the tea leaves
and keep looking for the next high.
A way to see out over
all of this separation,
that repeats in echoes and falls
from the early evening news.