What am I between these driving
delusions of all my anxieties, aside?
When every moment is a revolt against
suicide and my steadying decline
and my internal monologue dissolved
into reminding myself why.
Who am I but ceaselessly unsure
of the lens of my own myopic, miserable mind?
Between the shadows stirring
in the corners of these drying eyes
and the alarming cry for predators nearby,
these countless confines multiplying wildly.
How often I find I am fighting my brain every second, all the time
my own excessive efforts led awry
as my uncertainties undermine.
But now all I know is I am finally
freeing myself from being so spine numbingly paralyzed
now that I've realized I lie
underneath somewhere within
the way of still waking up
from this frozen comatose demise.

He liked pringles.
So she thought that it would go
Straight to his heart.

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile
   est; caetera fumus—the gondola stopped, the old
   palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—
   goats and monkeys, with such hair too!—so the
   countess passed on until she came through the
   little park, where Niobe presented her with a
   cabinet, and so departed.


Burbank crossed a little bridge
  Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
  They were together, and he fell.

Defunctive music under sea
  Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
  Had left him, that had loved him well.

The horses, under the axletree
  Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
  Burned on the water all the day.

But this or such was Bleistein’s way:
  A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
  Chicago Semite Viennese.

A lustreless protrusive eye
  Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
  The smoky candle end of time

Declines. On the Rialto once.
  The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
  Money in furs. The boatman smiles,

Princess Volupine extends
  A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
  She entertains Sir Ferdinand

Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings
  And flea’d his **** and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
  Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.

weary,


w


e


L


C

O

M

E


imtiredofkissingstrangerslips

what happened in

the smoke-filled room
at the edge of town

ravens sit on old wires
and wait

sparks flicker beneath them
but they don’t move

tires squeal and dirt flies
small rocks hit

metal and glass

enough to be heard
and felt

but not enough to break

when the dust settles
it is quiet

the birds eventually leave
and the lights come on

automatically

Mahatma Ghandi once said,
‘The greatness of nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.’
China gets a big fat F for fail
Human rights record- E for evil
Fix these and become a great nation
ATM - you ****!!!

Speculation

What is the best time to die?
A beautiful summer’s day
or in the winter when it rains.
There is an untimely satisfaction
that mourners - if there is any-
will be wet and die of the flu.
Sitting in the antechamber
discussing where we are going.
My plan is clear its Saragossa
where the dream of life continues,
because our conciseness was
a flash of light in the darkness.