and what alone belongs to us but death. aversion. smoke and bourbon’s sweet bitterness some barren passages. and in the end unfinished. a cloud of skirmishes. the memory of it slaughtered in a siege of means. he means this because he meant that and this stands for this because it has all been done before. it all goes like garbage into the great machine. to predict the future so the animals don’t eat us because we are afraid. little more that memory is last night’s trick standing at the window yielding to morning by the reparation of his precious neck, oh, tough boy. the liquor store is equal to my eye. that and oxycontin with its 20/20 vision snatches from the jaws of death a backbone of corrupted hope awkward, and biting the back of its hand wonders who will guide the horse that makes the night morning in my sheets and the noontide night lurks within this danger by degrees. still, to ride the junkie’s whore perhaps what i meant was what i said the dream was.
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