I fail at sleeping

 

in a show of unconditional accusation, the reproachful slander of your hereafter,

amongst the placid hours,

I try to be the grand man, but I shake too much

unhinged by the overreach of my skeletal height

much to the delight of every unskilled whistler

 

tough love and rougher hate interprets the shuddering motions, as my left hand lingers

over a possibility where dreams might bring

freshly fucked flesh and afternoon tea

 

I barter with piss and borrow into strained relationships

awaiting the unfounded precedence of my childish brain’s

blinked silhouettes burning themselves out

 

crumpled and brewed, and even while tempest soaked, charcoals outnumber my pasteled ambition

this distinct morbidity, by which I call my life, lacking

in that level of consistency

that spire sponsored screams might bring

 

for despite the consequences of ambient respectability,

reckless maturity brings terror to the aisles

and grave duels in the carefully measured medium

of the margins

 

and the starving are no longer a postulate amongst the rummaged toil

but the impotent sickness of a painters earthy delivery

counterfeit conjecture hung in the resentful stench

that remains too good

for the likes of you and I