Deep and dark in the rich brown clay

Ten thousand red legs untouched by day

Scurry and burrow and live mindless life

Until pecked and plucked by sparrow or snipe.

What more right to life have we?

What better than ignorant grubs to be?

How can I slough off this shell,
an oyster self-shucked and
steamed by loneliness?

And why did I grow this shell
in the first place?
It did nothing against the boil,
and seems to make
the world covet my flesh.

In the game we used to play, everyone pretended
to be a character, felt their feelings and drove
their choices, and when we needed to communicate
not as pawns but as players, we coded the messages
(OOC).

It’s a bit like that, not knowing
exactly what you’re doing at a given moment,
waking up with mistakes you’ve made and
not remembering the past, but
dealing with the consequences and
trying to get your head on straight.
I wish I could code myself (OOC),
a brain in a jar, removed from the game,
apologetic for my choices but friendly
to my fellow players.

The old hopes burn the slowest
with their greasy brown smoke,
smoke that smells like perfume and
reddens the eyes.

But old hopes run out. And new things
are fed to the flame, new passions,
sudden ideas, anything that can
be consumed will be consumed,
anything to stoke the furnace
in this lonely house.

the wondering if the axe could fall,
the hoping that the axe would fall,
the elation that the axe will fall,
the sense of dread as the axe is falling,
is all I see in
the thoughts of you
hanging above my
bed

The man on the mountain has filthy nails
And spits cherry seeds in a dirty pail
Like useless things, like broken hearts,
Like lovers lost, like careless darts.
The man on the mountain does not care
The flesh is sweet, the pits are bare.