By | 1 November 2018

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

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