don't disturb the gilmour

i could stand
to render this
apathy in twain.

chilled chel
on the half-
shell.

it's autumn, i'm
sucking bottom.

even the rusted oak
leaves look better
than me

and i love them be
cause it makes
me miserable.

again, in the mornings
i'm back to

alone -

gray squirrels and back
wood birds, now white
noise behind windows -

i cry when i'm
coming.

broken out broken
up and the only things
i can muster up
belief in are

the fact that
living choiceless is
the most efficient mode of
failure;

that even the truest
friends are never true.

i believe in the sounds
that escape during
sleep, that

disappointment is
the only reality.

that every man wishes he
were an island,
that his dreams were

as solid as fishes.

i believe i should have
killed this teenage boy,
instead of letting him

move in.

dreamfish packed
tight, i walk on
water every year.

all i find,
the same old fear:

wish i were here.