Always guessing at the wings of birds.
Mediocre existence- Piled-up, dropped down,
Splayed as if feelings can be neutered.
Give me the passage to God- no more
bowing to men, to end up in the gutter.
All those young whores in spandex,
Needle-hurt by life, all the praises toward
False gods of commerce.
Let us swirl in the paint & drown,
Cry for lovers lost, wounds open, seeping
like light at the corners of our eyes
That fade with dissipated dreams
Tired of everything.