Lumpen leanings
that search walls we ignite
with each, gruesome step.
The gross hoardings
that contain this land
are barriers to my listless love.
Habermas’ scribblings;
an ode to dishevelled past
that raises paper in curls.
Carnage awaits
as it found my father
it will find us all.
Liberate this instrument
that drums and drums
to a blue moon.
