it’s as if we are all
singing a song called
history. we dance along
lazily. we rest our eyelids.
we love and hate the tune with
the contempt an artist reserves
for something they create.
we are bored, tired of waiting for the
next verse.
and i
too,
am falling to sleep. 

I would rather
be a cog in a machine than a
hand on the face of a
clock

take one
leave one

take me
leave me

im
half
of
a
whole

and the morning comes
and goes
i fight to
swing my legs out of bed
and laugh
at the thought of one more day
of stupidity
and despair
trying to
clean my collar
from
factory smog
smoke and
stains.

the agony.

but it’s the nights that get me;
putting out fires in my heart with
rye and red wines, chasing
women i can’t feel or 
touch
and 
letting the most horrible thoughts
stomp around 
triumphantly  
in my head.

and then i sleep
a beautiful sleep

then there is morning.
and i get to 
laugh again.

there’s a big world out there
kid
keep you hands in your
pockets and your head
down

you remind me of

you remind me of spring(but not so
thin as languid and been)or as fingers
doting making
windows yawn
carelessly without regard for Death or winter
like an earnest child; scents money like
budding flowers in bouquets whose mouths kiss
sweetly
cherished age(young) and fruitful passion.


you remind me of spring(but not so
often sprung as sung) to sing)
where cold creeps often the
otherwhichway where
i am

i want to sleep
forever

pick the meat
off my bones,
artists

less
than
close
ness