.

A summation of two years time


walking out of ash
and a golden atheist steeple
an ear tickle guides me
to a series of fickle fascinations
with pathology.

and in all serious ruminations
a ghostly figure stands stagnant
underneath my rib cage waiting for dinner.
this is god awful, i think! the horror!

feed me, feed me, it demands
attention until i zap it out
like a cheap bulb of yellowed light
cracked from its own
overheating

consume no more, i tell myself
as i gravel on, one foot after another
a smile from ear to earring,

without cheap and feeble remarks
of another apology shooting
out from another steeple
like ribbons,
i am a step closer to the freedom
of range dust-angels.

hey you, the march still seems a joke!
but i did not crack, not ask for pity
and as time still does not hurrah for me,
i am young. i am too young.