Stars don't look hard on the ground,
careless as a sesame seed garnish
on a plate of hog gristle
and fork spun intestine
with bang bang sauce.
Fuck this noise. The fog tastes like static.
Burnt umber wind in the sails,
is dragging this beast nowhere,
bow down in asphalt:
blacked out and unsurprising.
Clean linen Fabreze in the vent
needs changing, spent
the better part of tomorrow
chain smoking the chaingang,
dancing with magpie fumes,
swirling in tunes that make me cry
into a shriveled nosegay,
and all the tortured momentos