my haven is a horse-box.
my gallant foul
what troubles lift with this?
it is tin or it is him
spending time with both.
I am cardboard
you are still.
manners of a king
thrill rehearsed bad photographs
impodent and ill.
you betrayed our every move.
I am tired you are flippant
half-man half in-between
a double sided anemone.
your mother always craved a daughters smile.
floating on the waters of a heart
each prop an anchor
easy on the miles.
it is china when the wind chimes
a paper cup if only for a while.
was it the puppy-fat, the orange,
or the ice-cream on your nose
that taught you how to dance
to decompose?
I crawled inside your fingers
with Bukowski on my arm.
what can we do?
almost nothing can awaken you
it is up to you
to figure out a plan.