not a great one
a friend of mine is dying,
i don’t think he’s going to make it,
neither does he,
nor do the doctors,
this isn’t much of a poem,
but i suppose i’m not much in the mood
to write one at the moment
a friend of mine is dying,
i don’t think he’s going to make it,
neither does he,
nor do the doctors,
this isn’t much of a poem,
but i suppose i’m not much in the mood
to write one at the moment
i’m afraid of my own shadow,
but only on thursday,
the rest of the week
we’re the best of friends
broken necks contemplating
meanings made out of faberge
as drunk people pass out in the attic
of my head, while using language
that looks abstract as protonation
liquefies memories of people
i once thought were friends