still at that dreamy stage where

 the days have become decades

  & one finally begins

   to comprehend the truth of being

    alone, face-down in the hospital

     doing my best to keep you in my

      heart, hypocrite lecturers & fans

       of perpetual air-conditioning, sour cream

       & conservative governments

         but my mind’s not right or left

          it’s more akin to windscreen-wipers

           in a bomb i can’t remember the model or

            year of, in an underground car-park in the desert

             with the radio just able to pick up

              the last non-screening talk-back station left

               which i’ve strangely called & am on hold to

                & the waiting music is something resembling

                 ‘greensleeves’ played by a machine from june 1982

                   it’s all about the timing, how one follows each

                    like the same thing & the good gaga google-goons go

                     goo-goo over & over about it & share there, natch

                      & you don’t want to be left all alone, well maybe