Fights that I don't have to fight anymore, bothered by the music because the lyric has a bad name in the balcony seats, the tongue passes through solid walls. The memory of silk a single catastrophe, my engineers alter waterways, a big timber division like concrete emotions, taken down in a day, the inside of a briefcase in a day's work. Not fuzziness, double negative splays out a hand fan making wind in the academy, cobwebs and dust bunnies under Baudelaire's bed. Just across the water, grilling steak over hot charcoals becomes genuinely political. I put my finger in it and stir.
Stilts chatter behind the chalkboard.
There's a party going on in my notebooks, blasting tangos over the Golden Dawn. There is no efficacy of poetry, and if there was, I would lie about it anyway, and that was my point.