the bull in china

i live in a nut house

with the curtains double lined

and drawn tight

but the doors are all off their hinges

i lack a light touch

subtlety is not my forte

i step on my words

like a garden rake in the weeds

and my nose is slammed

bloodied and bruised

why must i always heave and sweat

when i should simply slip away?

eye ‘em

 

 

i’m lost

i’m writing

i’m alone

i’m blind

i’m loved

two day’s night

 

what’s to be done now that you’ve left?

when there’s nothing else going on,

i sit in a corner and suck loneliness

like a blow pop

i sit and cry and cry

until i am too numb to feel

motionless and nothing moving

inside or out

then i think about the void you left

and i cry until i am too numb to feel.

interesting pastime.