In the darkness he sticks to his bones;
unsure why. He is a shrug of stillness.
After years soaking in the shop
he did try, but the hair in the soup
was too much; the ptomaine that stank
in the unspigotted vim.
He did try, but the trial
to jabber and cry,
with the rest of us
was nothing to bear;
so he sits like a frozen bung
in his shed
a bone-chilling mile from home.
Balded, he is a bone stuck in a boy’s toy,
betraying the mud that made him –
his primordial root tingling beneath his skin
silhouettes there in lotus
at the cemetery of tits,
alone in his sickness,
The wall drinks the world
bag of knuckles to a spuming black halo,
closed in the hand.
There cannot be enough
darkness for him. The loathing face
inhales at the gag, still-eyed, reneging.
In the dead of night
it is terrible to hear a man
waiting, waiting, failing.
Image by: ItsGreg