the goat is shaved smoking
'neath the blue moon
it's the kind of life when
you put your leather jacket on as the second thing the first is
searching through the ashtrays for a dog-end you can light without
burning your nose
an umbrella of jelly-fish
the heavens stay in place
and you get a call from an
animal welfare organization wanting your money under the - faulty -
pretext that you like animals pets and such and want your sausages to
have had a good life before they become part of the food industry
your cobweb heart someone
didn't tell you
and you finally get up and
find some real fags and while the kettle boils you check the table
for dead insects they choose to end their lives in the night leaving
you to pick up the pieces and you wonder why they are so hard to love
unlike cats and dogs and hamsters and
unsafe floor a fleeting
god escapes the rain
and despite your efforts
objects never stay in place not the ones you need to and not in the
places you put them and pouring water on the ground coffee a voice on
tv talks about the rain you see out the window
autumn a million beetles
digging canals under your skin
you can still blow smoke
rings even though the missing moles make them a bit more floppy not
as firm as your exhaled smoke used to be a coffee ring on the book
you've given up on
through the tear duct your
innermost worm is passed on
and you have this la-la
insight that you don't have to kill yourself life will do it for you
boredom suffocating on emptiness nailed to the floor by bad decisions
you name it and a little bird bumps against your window with a thumb
and you have cigarettes and coffee and what more my soul
