I do actually have a life,
It's there somewhere, tucked behind the curtains.
Glimpsed between meandering clouds and brown running horses,
up there, near the ridge-beam where trout pool,
collecting about the bits of me,
the voyuer, the Polonius, seeing what i should not see.
Is my destiny blown away?
I can no longer write, and don't even try.
Eyes have replaced mouth.
Rivers drain the veins holding that perfect view.
Someone's lookin' in through the smudged pane.
Could be a husband, could be a legion.
Hunger is still essential to my quest.
A gnawing in the gut,
a churning in the bowel,
a howling in the intestine
and the thick dry tongue of poverty
throbbing around the prayer of escape.
Attack! Attack this pale representation
of a troubled nib, too young
to have derailed
and not old enough to die.
Maybe it's there,
there where cross-minds graze
a flame, a flutter of life
through the window....
it's crazy to realize
i want a life that is not my own
make the background "transe"
thousands bopping to the sound
energy drinks as blood
face flushed to start again
but, instead, choosing a worm and a bitch magnet because lazy is as sloth does as sloth is as bitch does.