I have short stack
-not good for placing bets-
the feeling of trapped
comes back and back again

so instead of working hard

I sat on the lap of santa
but with a protruding silhouette of death
not so much asked as
demanded better hands

Disregard and reject me
with disinterest
since you can't tell I'm just depressed

every start
waiting form
every essay
waiting to be born.

I is in progress
or out of service.

Chants from hearts, that can't repent
-I hear from every bar, in soho
and lament
wading the streets
I see
sanctioned off
where I expected sheets of steel to fall
-from the sky

Is this religion?

Dormant disco *****
still turning in sleep
as big as the sun
and so they repeat

and trash, floats towards
then past, the bin

each platform captured within
as a pagan amulet;
persistence permits
and I await initiation

or the decision to elect I leave and project-
across golden maps fading brown, the endless claps on ears that drown.
An incorporated business I suspect awaits a future of decent respect.

everyone shouting "just let it happen"

and then at last a log cottage or cabin I built with my two hands-cremated where the stumps still stand. Of a series of misfortunes I depict this was to be the one I loved the best, for it was robust and could last. It would begin suspended in detention and later appear on murals and epitaphs. As solidified commands.

Graffiti, graff and moss would all overwhelm a tired future of eternal past whilst the wind whistled back through the cracks- "just dance" and "laugh".

Frozen, floating
in my tumbler,
my Life preserver.
filling the hole
of the disc's cylinder
becoming something
of lumber
and
Timber!

Crashing with
onto collapsable bed
collapse
something I give
uh oh, I'm
tired
and put me to sleep

Watering the leaves
amongst other things
I see
Inspiration
and ooh,
my poor Liver

I stretched
and my head shook
and a fragment of dust fell on my screen
and I felt dead silence

I had thought it before-
if there was anything happening in the silence
if people who sat there
were instead mounted
in some egotistical endeavor

in the distance and out the window
I began to see the beginning
of a stationary UFO
and the idle suspension chords
of the stadium below
and the light above
and down they glowed.

I saw buildings
that came in phases
instead of the pages
I am meant to read
my flatmate nagging me
et ce n'est pas possible
with such a scope of the city

and the day turned to a pale blue gray
and the sun waded away
down the back of this library
in which I could not read

I know we all
love perfect geometry

so there I laid
making sense of the scene
staring at the machine
resting incomplete
and knowing- it needs me;
I am the missing piece

But then I wondered
which part would I be
resting above the bicycle seat?
crunching the cogs-
and hogging all the good teeth
but no-
instead disguised in the frame-
-in the open triangle-
-under the icon-
-under the handlebars-
-a part I don't know the name-

but the one trying to make ends meet.

Oh narrative where have you gone? For I have looked long and wide for the stories of crumpled pages, crushed and ripped from the notebook.
Tossed utensils in bitter dissatisfaction, the romance and dining room etiquette. The mysteries of discovery and love and journeys and paths. Where has the classical romance fled in desperation? The aimless prose of life without purpose- the vagrant dolce vita/et decorum est. stories of huffing men of androgynous battles of bamboo shoots that bloom.

For it is science fiction that grabbed the attention of the masses- the road and where it led. And then also one without purpose. This is how love would be found- floating distantly in space with a raging discontent and somber acceptance of the next assignment due whilst Chopin plays instead of the blue Danube and there, a second sun would be found adjacent to two walls not a corner but more so a crease curiously waiting and the light would shine up and divide into two separate circles and beneath the boundaries of each, a shadow. And the sun would know darkness.
Oh narrative where have you run to? Or perhaps we have run from you.