What Do You Do?
Usually, at night I
to Miles Davis symphonies
I erect a hundred effigies to city lights
fill dozens of chalices, full.
Oh no I mean,
what do you do so
that society doesn’t
do away with you,
call you scab or fleck,
fuck you from existence
on any given/slow motion
I find new things to write about.
I practice my funeral pyre
To the trepidations of horn
But don’t you need something
I have the absinthe nightmare
of my adolescent hi jinx.
I replay my stupendous pride.
Internally, at my soulful cine-plex.
I sneeze and Greece eases into the ocean
a little further, I shit and LA loses a mile
I trip, and dynasties lay to ruin, smoulder.
What about security, how do you sleep?
Like Kubla Khan meets Mario Bros.
With a slice of Fincher and Lynch.
I sleep between scenes, in a pinch in a ditch,
always the same; another watcher, another eye.
The epic fallout of our time.
To live long enough to see it all fall apart.
And write the first post-apocalyptic poems.