Saturday, December 22, 2012


Down to my last 

(We're not supposed to 

Whisper the word pilling –
a piling-on of fabrications

You wear it well or
wore it

Free range derangement commences
as denizens make strange with tenses and moods

I saw an old cancerous friend and he said,
“I remember when I used to be creative.

They cut it out of me
all interstitial-like.”

The lies and years are

I will miss you when you shun me. I write these
things for nothing

You remain
the best nothing I know

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