on
those pale mornings
when
my remnant dreams
still
cling as shrouds
to
another me
in
some other world
and
the cold grey sun
s –
e – e – p – s
little
shards of heaven
to
prick my sleepless eyes
I’m
as tired as an old joke
told
in a funeral parlour
I
feel like a dirty burlap sack
full
of ossuary bones
I’m
the prolapsed organ
they
dare not resuscitate
and
quite symptomatic
of a
broader demographic
of
disenchanted and careless
mercenary
vagabonds
I
could be zombie king
if
I so desired
complete
with
chocolate
toolbox
the
amnesia haze
and
four flat tires
so
give me the reds
give
me the blues
give
me the yellows
and
the white ones too
patch
me to that big linear zero
and
fill my cranium with soup
we’ll
have no thought here
no
cognitive assemblage
is
necessary
I
sense the world
through
my arsehole
and
its diarrhoea burn
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