blasted apart with

the first breath running

out of days

as the banister glints

in the early morning sun. there

will be

no rest

even in our dreams. now all there is to do

is reset broken moments.

when even to exist seems a

victory

then surely our luck

has run thin

thinner than a bloody stream

toward

death. life

is a sad song:

we have heard too many voices

seen too many faces too many bodies worst have been the faces:

a dirty joke that no one

can understand. barbaric senseless days

total in your skull;

reality is a juiceless

orange.



there is no plan

no out

no divinity no sparrow of joy.

we can’t

compare

life to anything

- that’s too dreary

a prospect. relatively speaking

we were never short on

courage

but at best the odds remained

long

and at worst

unchangeable. and

what was worst:

not that we wasted it

but that it was wasted

on us: coming

out of the Womb

trapped in light and darkness

stricken and numbed

alone in the temperate zone

of dumb agony

now running out of days

as the banister glints

in the early morning

sun.

