Nicotine and coffee stains the finger..
teeth discolor the view of Sunday morning
excuses, the subtle urges to
have or pretend to feel
urges to know edges begin and end,
urges to alter sin
otherwise we're lost
capable the view of the supercilious sound
this macabre sense of nature with no
real understanding of tomorrow
boundaries resound inside and outside the
room,
ovaries for my discontent,
Luteoma my illness, analogous to sin.
I have
no real desire to quit or to salvage my shattered shell,
brief and sooner, now or later
sounds and
imagery tell me
everyone and nothing means success and failure
the greatest feat is to believe in the hereafter,
however fleeting the salvation of knowing
what happens after this, doing for the self,
masturbating the mind before someone else can.
I’m just like you in that regard,
a player of players, a
mask that serves a single purpose
doing to get the day going, night moves toward order.
words ahead of the lost way people forget why
they are here,
children are less critical
and that is good
older people are more critical and that too is good.
Afraid of fitting in and not fitting in
when
none of
this could possibly matter
the end is near and dreams aren’t
predictions, specifically simple slices of things
how seldom distract but always
adhere
these moments of years.
Sunday morning excuses
buttered subtle urges to have
urges to believe
urges to understand the consequences,
the greatest hereafter, however fleeting the salvation of knowing what happens after this,
these boundaries
inside and outside
analogous to fingertips.
Assuming - sometime in March 1999
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