tired heart

tired eyes
tired bones

if i could really talk to anyone i'd say
"hi"
"what about my tired heart?"
"yours is one of many" they'd say.

I don't know my local heroin dealer.
i'd say "hello. Where's oblivion?"
"right here" i'd hope they'd reply.

i dont know my local loner
i'd say "why are you so old?"
they'd say "go away"

i do know my local scene magazine editor.
"why did you ignore me in the street? " i'd ask.
"because i'm a fucking cuntbubble birthed from my mothers quim"

i'd hope for a response.

i am a ball of cement swaying slowly on a precipice. a precipice adjoined on all sides my sheer drops of one inch.

and if i wake up to late i dont leave the house.

i wake up late alot.

warm night

i am eclisped by this aspiration to be free
to be joyous
to live a purely mythical
time
with bunting and available wenches
or firm friends

some of the people have at least some good things some of the time
even if they are contsrained by reality and not perfect

i am constrained by aspergers syndrome and all that it entails.

the water drips over my clock
my on rushing blood shot eyes
make me crave a new oblivion

my old ghosts come out of my minds eye
and live a little next to my feverish body

if there are ants on my lawn
there must be tunnels