Times two; for wanton rage where
Eagles dare to dream.
I’m fitful and tired and burning out
In this rabid, nuisance mind.
Flipping pages of not yet dust:
Smoke forms a roof to insulate
And I engage with the
Hopeless breeze of thought.
Spluttering incessance while
The hands churn; perpetual,
Without ever holding,
Passing us by.
Crime does pay for all our sins
In blood, stone and cash.
There’s a well running dry; deserted now.
Gargle and hydrate away!
Green paper fades in clawing tips:
“When we’re rich we’ll sing from these dried lips!”
Slots and dice played with
Cots and minds of The All,
“I’m not a man to crumble under pressure.”