...openings are too difficult/ and endings /are never clear/ my median is courage trapped in fear/ i did the maths/ lost the plot;/ i am the artist/ who slaves his world to sketch a dot/ and proclaims a movement.my tears made the sea/ and in return/ the sea made me cry.but grown men should not cry/ or so she told me...over intoxication/ on the bladed/ fine lines of the truth/ will slice/ the deposited pools/ of sensitivity and trepidation/ collected in small boxes/ left road side/ by wooden poles/ on the way/ to nowhere..../ in particular.i will tell you my truth/ if you tell me yours/ should they correlate/ we can mole over/ the past/ deriding our future/ and play linguistic chess/ 'til there are no more words/ to resuscitate/ and parade/ on meandering carnivals/ of elapsed pages.two grey haired philosophers/ drunk on the necessity/ to rationalise/ the suffering/ and suffer/ the implacability/ of the rational..i think i forgot to tell you/ i am lost/ in the spaces/ between substance/ and the questions/ between avowals/ these theories are all/ starting to look alike/ and the hypothesise/ seems so many blocks ago/ i left my mind on the meter/ and her cheeks/ on the heater/ (to dry)/ i must get back/ to smiling.
