what distance this
between the do or die
the puppet strings of a global menopause?
the penny-black on a postcard from Brazil.
what it lacks no less a secret
than the phantom of this cabaret and mime.
once mine the wine of summer
through the channels of a throat.
goat herd as we alike
drifting green upon the weather\'s smitten brow.
all illusions bite bright yellow
through the centre of a fog.
we have fingers
we have palms,
but still we sway and swagger
like daggers treading water
each dressed as god
a lighter shade of pale.
again we delve into the lampshade of a lie!
it is tooth-and-nail
the frail deceased inside the stomach of a frog.
but still they burn
the wounds of winter drifting like a log.
these streets we walk are ours
my bitter friends
yet still we crawl as worms that cannot sing.
so brings me here to the summit
of an everlasting stem.
our silence now discreet.
meet me if only one last time
and take that final plunge.