After the panting, it’s me alone.

I put on goggles, acting out various twitchings.

Nobody sees.

In the puckered navel of giant city,

In the racing heart and switching crossbeams.

Nobody cares.

It’s all right.

Mmmn, isn’t it, though?

My dome in thought, prickled and smoothed.

Can you help me?

I write long strands of rickety houses.

Can you learn them? Burn them?

I dream of freaky, faraway futures.

Are yours, too?

My noduled throat and bleary days besiege me.

I smack of giraffe, spotty and slow chewing.

I feed on air, sometimes.

The munch munch of decomposition.

The aphid march of family and friends.

The fearful cries of more sliding and sliding.

I’m becoming permanent in my bowl.

Can you help me?

My spaces are hollow.

Some things among many I need right now:

Any whip and strike to the head.

Any decompression any annihilation.

Any rampage any reboot.

Any dread any hope.

Any con or complicity.

Any tentative touch, any trolling tentacle.

I’m waiting for it.

I’m sitting here just waiting for it.

(Featured by Newtown Literary – get your copy hereor Kindle version here!)

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