Thursday, December 5, 2013



Wasted in the morning luxuriating in the semi-comatose
numbness to the last ghost you’ve seem returning
to its grave without being bothered by it like an immune system
you could take for granted as a sign of the state
of the health you’re in when you can’t get to sleep with tumours
and all you want to do is disappoint pillows. Vita brevis. Arta longa.

Look out the window at the enlargements of the dawn
as much as you can when you’re able to stand.
Pet the cat. Have a long blue drag on a fat cigarette
that’s beginning to look like a pregnant guppy
humping a seahorse in my hands. Remark
to myself that I’m not the first man
to see the pigeons flying over the tarpaper roofops
as if it were fun to be a pigeon with the northern lights
around your neck and I wished I was one of them
waking up in a happy town to throw myself around
like wedding confetti at a morning marriage of bells
or a scrapped manuscript torn to bits because it’s got talent
or apple bloom and mailmen trying to get some coffee into them
cooped up in a restaurant like one of hidden wonders of the age.


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