Stuck on the actual prime meridian
where gambling and grown up shenanigans
are viewed all *****
hurting society, though I could legally go to the drain on my street
and drop a thousand twenty pees in it
nae bother
our equivalent bet
as high rollers we are surely not

I miss you Vegas
with your daft anti-reality cushions,
the strip with no history or heritage
necessarily
but with goofy drunken dreams brimming alive

and I know vice, bad, horror, addiction yadda yadda

I miss you Vegas

I am excessive
Like the incessant honk of the train blazing down highland
Like the rain when I've conveniently left my umbrella home.

I do not know how to form a balance
Organize chaos
Tidy the mess that is I

I gorge and tarry

I circle around the halo
That stirs what lies below.
Spinning now
Only excess
materialises in belief form.
What is it about the chimera you construct
For those that don’t exist?
Gasping and grasping on
Slivers from a murdered past
You insist on perfecting gems in souls
Where there are none.
Let it rest my friend … or not
For the fury of Zenobia
Is still lighting
What remains of your life
And mine.

there's a letter I wrote you with no address
in a box beneath my bed
and this isn't a metaphor for the time I spent waiting for you
there's scattered words in my head
playing like a broken record
a collage of tired clichés
holding just enough truth to echo the memories of you
there's nails on my fingers bitten to the brim for every time your name's been in my mouth
and I've tried to wash it down
but something about the wiring in my brain
has fooled me into believing my excess of love
will make up for your lack there of

What percentage of the time

do you lie in that bed?
     the rest a waste
          of the metal springs
                    forged by
                    factory workers
                    pouring in their
                    unpaid overtime
                    to meticulously
                    shape the steel
                    into just the right
                    comforting bounce
     a waste
          of the soft cotton cover
                    picked by
                    (slave-descended) hands
                    white fluff
                    still echoing centuries
                    of black oppression
                    spun on foreign looms
                    shipped back
                    across the seas
                    dyed, woven,
                    stretched taut
                    into just the right
                    soothing texture
     a waste
          of the foam stuffing
                    made from...
                    whatever goes into
                    foaminess...
     how many hours wasted?
     daily
     weekly


What percentage of the time

do you write with that ballpoint pen?
     the rest a waste
          of the clear plastic casing
                    melded from petroleum
                    by corporations
                    extracting black gold
                    in exchange
                    for greenhouse gases
     a waste
          of the tiny perfect sphere
                    rolling smoothly along
                    tungsten carbide surface
                    exquisitely crafted
                    for maximum efficiency
                    by man's finest machines
                    factories churning out
                    thousands by the hour
     a waste
          of the bright blue ink
                    the mysterious mixture
                    of dyes and pigments
                    and oils and surfactants
                    spilling onto the page
                    recording your
                    delicate thoughts
                    in desperate
                    existential hope
                    they won't be as oft ignored
                    as that device
                    from which they pour forth
     how many hours wasted?
     monthly
     yearly


What percentage of the time

do you sit in that reclining chair?
do you walk in those polished dress shoes?
do you eat with that bent spoon?
do you style your hair with that fine-toothed comb?
do you turn the pages of your favorite book?
do you see by lamp's light in the guest bedroom?

     how many hours
     sitting unused, wasted?
          in a life