He's a writer with his pen dipped in gin, his legs a prop, his fingers torn. He tells us the story of your red couch upon which too many bottoms have sat and of the fate of each, a useless entwinement of too much energy for one fall to handle. Cushions that impart their bruises should be turned into rag dolls for those city children with no backyard. Nothing ever happend there, the old times written with that flammable ink that only makes him dizzier, but that won't stop him thinking so. As he continues to twirl that stick above his desk the clouds pass in front of and behind the sun, tricyclists race on a well-known course, and a steel beam supports a broken dream.
My days are best when I'm blind and forgetful and my limbs are charred.
My nights are always laced with fatigue and recollections and glass veins.
What can I say that won't reveal my incredible youth? that won't masque the pain of knowing I could never control even myself? that doesn't require remote reform, rarely redeemed?
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