Saturday, September 18, 2010

the lack of everything

my car in shop
i am under-the-weather
insomnia on top of that
the gods already took away
everything else: love, wine, cigs
now stranded
between the walls
& w/in this weary shape
poetry is all that is left
like one fucking wooden match
in jet black space
but enough i suppose
to start some kind of heat
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.