what does it
what does it matter
I am sunken in mad love
with whims
and days
and tunes
that break me
I let fall
all that once were
here are ceasless
chronic
mornings
and goddamn afternoons
cigaret bathtubs
that soon
poke holes
and flutter
stale mockery.
I,
lack a revolution
I,
am the sulk of tragedy.
but what does it
what does it matter
my pen doesn't oblige
once the seep of night
enfolds it's self,
and morning come.
I will look
at my stationary words
they will be cold, and
they will be stark, and
they will be naked.
and they will not,
content a soul.
I am yours
take me
I am yours.
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