am angry.
once again the wind too cold to argue with.
it seems what cannot move I cannot drink.
I stink of cigarettes and gasoline.
I have no desire to love
the very things I cannot see.
I have puked one thousand daffodils
but still she lays there quiet as a rose.
this is death personified.
I am a sparrow in a hornets nest
juggling laughter with the blue veins of the moon.
too soon to die? perhaps
but who am I to argue with
a prostitute on a slate bed roof
giving head to a thousand seagulls
as I write my will on a cloud of jealousy,
as I write an ode to a suicidal man
with a long grey beard with a taste of leprosy.
am drunk.
once again the fluid flows
too cold to argue with.
naked and exposed
but still she lays there quiet as a rose.
so it has come to this
drinking piss from the fountain
where the great god\'s came and gathered for a feast.
now 40 days beneath the grass
still I know as little as you do.
the lord will be my shepherd that has found me.
what you were will never be again.
I am close to death
and I really do not care;