the radio dj, that modern day oracle, never saw it coming; nor did the blithe arse celebrity commentator, articulator of nothing, who talks talks & us, we’re under attack &
what are you doing about it?
there’s death-like joy when i trip trot across the little wooden bridge & my balls hold;
wave my stick & don’t die hunched, slumpt across just because you see a pair of ragged hands: here’s the news at 6 & 7s & , stock platitudes & here’s where i fall down the stairs & don’t get up
& me as a child cross legged tied against the chair but the knot’s no good & it’s hard to do anyways to
self-crucify, hard but i pull & i’m blue at the thought of calling you & you don’t come & when you come, it feels wrong.
like i done something wrong