dach zafoe
the cutting, the cunning ironist
the bulletproof monotheist
of megalomania bought in bulk
dollars a pound-- bervatim chokes
on words too big and concepts narrow
slow lips and fast thoughts, 
getting by selling spare bone marrow
outsourced and infamous
faceless and nameless
praying at a telephone booth
halfway to damnation
calling collect on debts you don't owe me
can't owe me
won't bring me
can't woe me
for trying, crying
little zachary ryan
metallic figure eights drawn out on my chest
cool as cadavers, I'll finally find rest

can you -- can anyone
just hear me once
can someone prop me up for a night,
on the sticks and stones that never broke me 
under the words that won't save me
pressing down in uncaptured
raptured tonnes
a metric falling onto deaf ears
and sewn up palms,
offering the lukewarm ballfisted
hoverhand embrace to sate a tollbooth tithe
grown fathoms deep.
and I yet still preserve the sated satyr smile, 
porcelain and ruined as a damn built by druids
cracking at the seams on which the prophets wrote
but damnation wrought,
9mm thick takes but one pull.

that's the solution what dissolves friends
puts easy access to their ends
as cowardice is want to do
and so the lions were slain
caught dreaming behind their fierce eyes
the betrayal of the mane:
a blink in histr'y
why it happened? 
how dare they write it as a myst'ry

Nights like these my legs just go numb and keep carring me, no matter how loud I scream and beg them to just leave me in a wreckless, wracked heap.
God bless them. 
Odin bless us.
for doing the unthanked, unnoticed task that I owe them for my life for
time and time again. 

have you ever struggled to be in a moment?

I'm either in it, perfectly disregarding the mass panorama pressing in both directions simultaneously, all the time, all at once
or i'm miles away. 

What are you doing right now?
'Sleeping.'

How fucking selfish of me.