Another August daylight is fast approaching
but I'm oblivious to time
just as sleep finds no purchase
in any of my remembrances,
as the drip drop of sink filth
wets the toothpaste caked porcelain.
Dawn's noises outside are muted,
echoing emptiness nonetheless.
Or are they simply my disease
projecting out onto the street?
Stillborn, I starve on starlit sunrises
with world-weary pizza,
too drunk to dream (too cheesed to notice).
Too numb to scream.
But I do.
And I feel.
Cold.
Straining through the condensation,
a summer drizzle of freezing sweat
steaming down my spine.
*******
Can I have fries with these shakes?
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