The voice of my addictions trails away this morning
bored of the lack of recognition
waiting low for a better moment.
We all know our multiplying sides get into messes.
You fight yourself for a long time, then head down
Cuba St with a golf club, just going for windows.
We turn to stone and crumble simultaneously.
This is the age of aging. What riches
have you laid up inside, for later?
We have to watch our words dripping off the paintings
failing to reach your thighs, misplacing their keys again
shatter into a shape of safety glass.
vanity. humility and words that stick
onto your acts, interpreting
shyness, overthinking, hesitation, stories of loss,
the internal struggles that tire you so much
you can’t go outside, so this protects you
The truth is something else, nobody knows what,
but a strong theory gives a sense of control
which feels like empowerment
This obsession releases you from the rest.
Basket your eggs. There’s so much too much
to sense let alone resist, and nobody else seems to notice.
They sleepwalk the steps and drink
themselves to joy at gigs and accept
the humiliation of the city’s needs, the cheap talk,
this romantic craving that wipes out the original
so it can keep existing. You shut your face and work
on the sensibility of a tiny portion of the reclamation
project guarded in our hearts, like a fortress or a zoo.
Being a human is incredible.
Being human is a crazy distance
from everything that can’t imagine us.
There’s nothing at all we can do except continue.
