this is war: ill and remote
i cannot stand it.
i see battling blood cells in carpark zombies -
poor babes cannot breathe in yellow
lard streams. their exasperated tears
cause cotton to dampen
a headless high.
restless, i feel the quiet discomfort
of unwashed toes. they never grow -
stagnant and stubborn. apathetic,
they are a bored grandpa with a shrinking tv
who believes he can count pores
on unshaved faces. really,
it's the final pull of graveyard dust to the
i wonder what it's like
[i know nothing of science]
to be one of twenty cancaning sea-men,
wooden-limbed and glass-eyed
almost too well in time.
i've heard it said
that if you replace more than two-fifths of a man
then he remains a man, just not the same.
now this overflow.
like when your eyes are hot and tired
and, with certainty, you turn
expecting a figure where a bin and bush stand.
they are uncomfor