all really is folly
An unnumbered show of the sun
agrees with somebody elses watched clock
the escaping clock continues to waste.
shrugging my bloody bloodless life away-
oh to be him in that passing luxurious car!
instead of being swarmed by shit memories-
my dead Aladdins cave of laughable nothingness
except stimulated laughs
except my kid days
of being the rag arsed evader of my Fathers midnight calls
too busily scoring goals under the street light.
BASTARD! that I can,t close the distance between them
oh that then golden concern for nothing!
when 'stooping age' were future words
waiting to uncoil, waiting to hissingly accompany me on the road to death.
this strange will of returning I keep?
this groping for youth,
from behind this sullen grey wall
crying as I write