the night signs off with smoke and leather
sweating between the grains,
like the chalk residue of metal,
the powder still in your nose,
the ceiling and the walls fail together,
the carpet and the curtains melt with their stains.
We are empty alone but together,
there are funeral pyres in our brains,
little mausoleums burning eternal flames,
there are kisses wrapped in tin foil,
saccharine sweet prevails.
as the gun lit tip of the last wretched evening,
the last free unadulterated link in the chain,
peels off like ash before the window,
a pile of shit or guts or brains,
we are lying on the floor before ourselves
and I for one have gone insane.
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These are, for the most part, poems.
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