if we were profits

shapes bend

and buck stuck

to the skin of our thin

our thinnest meaning

gleaming teeth

unsheathe

echo chambers

mouths

that crowd

around the parables

of pity by committee

we pull apart

our start

and hand it to the wind

pinned

to the politics of purpose

I ache

I ache to awake

from the gloss of our loss

of our losses

she crosses

on the ballot next to

ambivalence

antipathy and rye

caustic shrugging

drugging hope

with a cautious poison

tighten your belt

accept the hand

you were dealt

by the crooked

croupier

like platelets

a soft accumulation

of stars

the obsolete sky

abundant

spitting colour

it's an odd scar

the years end

scissors snip the stitches

not knowing

how it will heal

a half smile on my skin

a rubicon

I'm unmoved

all that seems different

is the sky

trying to find it's voice

it's tongue made of Jupiter

lips poised

clinging

to an imagined shape

as each word arises

it pops

and fizzles

stuttering into a shower of sparks

a bark

of frustration

a small

pear shaped puddle

beneath the canopy

of the station entrance

the warm

orange glow of a street lamp

reflected

a flame without a candle

amongst the yellow grid

of a parking space

and suddenly i'm

thinking about Bukowski

specifically his bare feet

his one pair of shoes

his floppy laces

have I ever seen

the Edge of myself?



*last line ripped straight outta "see here, you" by charles bukowski - his line goes "you have never seen the Edge of yourself"