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Who will break the bones,

burn the bodies

and direct us beyond the grave

to the nearest public house?


Who will watch the skies

digging twinkling diamonds,

pulled out like a rotten tooth,

this gaping maw of the cosmos

filled with the garbage and detritus

of yesterday’s triumphs,

today’s indiscretions

and the crippling defeat

we face tomorrow?


My name,

my real name,

is lost on me –

I descended

from a long, long line

of teachers, accountants,

chefs, nurses, boat-builders.


The real meaning of being

is screaming in our ears

every time we shake hands

or tell our women

that we love them;

we bode well for the future,

the liquidity of time’s evanescence

stoppered in bottles,

shattering in a storehouse

as we sing

and dance

and fall over.


Be excellent to each other;

party on, dudes.

Published inPoetry

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