the books in my room gather dust.
time turns to satin—on the shore
of ideas, an old boat coats with rust.
in the wind echoes its engine's ancient roar.

children play their games in the street.
ashes of the sun flushed down the toilet.
all things seen and unseen begin their retreat
as fun comes to an end, the adults spoilt it.

not a day goes by—that's all, that's it.
no one wants even to ask if
                                                                 we're going to make it.

you wanted with such fury to be
to be kind
to be loving
to be generous
you wanted with such ardour to be
to be there
to be all to one
to be understanding and to be understood
you wanted with such frenzy to be
to be wild
to be tamed
to be seen and heard and touched

what happened?

you spent too long wanting
and never learnt how to get

but take heart, my joy,
there is time yet!

you spend so long looking for the right combination of words
they took your silence as a final answer.

mass grave of wasted days
outer reaches of meaningless ***
system of grand ideas amounting to
            0
dead heat of futility
thought migrating out of the confines of the human brain
endless reduplication of signs signifying
            **** all
black hole of love
commodities on all sides
lonely ecstasy
appearing without being
fishhooks of want
time without number
number without form
substance rotted from the inside
boredom
            filling interstices of voids

and you, if you, always
            somehow
untouched by these pallid things

keep on your seeking
            if you can,
o joy, go on, if you can

they spend thirst-filled days
and restless nights
scouring the ashes
in search
of traces of light.

and so what have i to offer you beyond
a collection of cheap and naive sentiments
matted in the dust of ineloquence?
i miss you, is all, but not even you:
an image of you, but not even an image:

the ghost of a fantasy. yes, i am
haunted, haunted by your absence
your senseless existence your
orbit without mass or distance
and all the rest, in its restless fabrication.

all that remains are your artefacts
with i among them, not quite intact.

most things are ****.
the spectacle goes on.
the last **** of the human species.
we're all doomed, but this has nothing
to do with you and me
now in this room, our bodies
and the heat between them.
let's get high and ****.