This pickled flight of fancy,
A loop of nauseous doubt,
The blood rush spinning
Then abruptly ending
In seconds.
I face the never
With a grimace
And dredge up
Weeping snapshots,
All the while
Picturing my future in neon,
Grasping at slithers
Of sunshine
Through curtains.
I tackle your echo
With a bowl and a spoon,
I cash in food coupons
And fake smile at tourists,
All the while
Heeding the warnings,
The boom of slippered feet
And the wild night time moans
That could cover a cavern,
Wrestle it westwards
To watch the sun sink
And then sit on the brink of disaster.
It’s simple,
Sometimes dusty thoughts
Lead us slowly down alleys,
No meanings to speak of,
Just shadows and shapes,
The smell of old smoke,
Piss weeds and felines,
Urban excuses,
Barbed wire knotted,
And as we lie and retire
Another minor apocalypse
Burps out in b minor,
It bubbles,
It worries,
It pops
And it flurries,
These sinkings
Are quite partial to clowns.