I sit upon a poetic verse, a curse lurching towards amalgamation of sin, dustbins and sex organs thrust unto god knows where.
I dance frivolously, missing just less than three of these on The Long Road Home, stone and rock – mocking my little kisses.
The funeral march is grand, bland but almighty, tightly packed into a rack of old records, there chequered and used as ornaments.
I groove to this beat, heat and feet both singing to my dead, eyes pink and red, tiny blood vessels popping and locking, jockeying for position.
I sing in an echo, lest no man, woman, or cetacean come close enough to grasp the first vibration, mistaken for a vacation to the Bahamas.
I tell them to let her go, to show me what’s left of my kept-beating heart, apart for so long, held aloft by steel tongs as I cry her to sleep.
Lullabies for the remembered, September always comes too quickly, the start and the end, friends waving goodbye to the ship sailing on, along gently swaying waves.
I’m only here to prove we exist, you know?
