you too have asked Who am I
& not waited for an answer.
there’s a house we might live in.
some rustic shack & the wet asphalt
is streaked yellow.
there’s danger in the storm-rent sky,
on the crest of hill
we feel; it exists – in the mind for now but
you can imagine;
do anything but don’t;
empathise with worms, butterflies – in theory
& all sorts of non-entities, transients on the road
like me between rains.
when i think of it – hold this moment…
i come close to not dying.
it all depends, o lord how we cling
like limpets to a rock.
Hysteria of strings, words
Nothing beats physical pain.
It’s 1920 or some such
& who can tell where we’re going.
These might be golden days, but.
Quartets sound the same to the untrained
like rap but it’s cool for some name drop
mac who gets it, & why this snob dickishness
anyways? because you suck?
fire blanks, miss all sorts of –
wildly at the dark (but it’s still there)
& prays but
one’s decidedly f-ked
& it’s too late to unsay, to mitigate;
oh, one sucks & it’s too late to (etc).
Interesting. i could learn from you,
yr search history, what yr
in to. Frm
monosyllables the most beautiful,
sentences are possible.
When i’m prime-minister or president for instance,
nothing will change. You’ll still be slaves
to yr job – o yr such whores – !
I come close to swerving off the road.