Who of you can hear laughter in both ears, a devilish whisper from each shoulder
I dare say this two vs one nightmare is a little unfair, turn to tag out and there's no one there
My corner's bare, how'd I even get here? On my knees, can't breathe, please, someone return the air
Dark comes from everywhere leaving one light in the far distance, dead center and it draws near
Looked death square in the face and said, "you're no longer welcome here"
He didn't hear, probably did just didn't care to answer
No atheists in foxholes huh, who knows the correct prayer?
Do we even have a prayer?
Why bother with a prayer
It's only wasted air, there's no one there
...is there??

©2023

watching for air                              a mad thing of static to do
unwashed  i hold it all foreign   my perspectives clothed as the enemy
an agreed muscle of tension       with pockets fracked into my hands 
i look out the window   wide agape guidance                                                     invasive drills of heat   the giving sunlight ; punishing,
a tree,   the grieving buildings
the whinging of cicadas
and here i am     watching for air

one point for the weather                                                      
one­ point for the view                                                            
­one big point for my ****** condition                                
one point for the passers by and their galling dramedies

and there it is ; the wiry plan that's built                        
from one small tickle of wild thought              
                                 formed long ago
trickling to the current day
some whipped wit of poisoned psychology          
     fed to the inbreed   (welcome   you panting imp)
decades of saved up fatty layers
a deed   of habitual sediment
retching until the tide laps become still
   a cured and congealed gladness
marbled, a butcher would say
i am full and hearted and heated and padded senseless
        turned under a heel   with my wastrel history
  i’ve accomplished this     a stifled condition
                               of poisoned obscenity

seated deep        almost fully incapacitated  
in my armchair   on this chummy day
my leisure clothes greasy     sluck against my blemished hide
a packet of cigarettes   to my side
rounded upon  by sounds of the neighbours affairs
with a gasp of energy   i 'skin one off' vigorously
my system trembling   with years of hard liquor
borderline   to a state of unconscious whelm
retained final       prime for ignition
i could manage a spectacle
a blinding flare
                                  a glorious incineration
and the release
                      of my true oder

i light a match for my cigarette

She is my comfort in my storm,
The breath in my lungs
The soul in every poem that I write

When her hands are on my body
And her lips are on my neck
Her name is the prayer on my tongue