if there is a God, there's another beer in
the fridge...
the pain in my right foot will recede
(in fact all the pains gathered throughout
the day)
and I could sleep without the alphabetical
lice of my thought scampering about my head
if there is a God, somewhere there's not,
and that disturbed me as a child Protestant,
so I left
and only being a child what I left was
conviction
only being conviction confession confection
so my teeth are rotten, I don't smile -
my age forgotten, as technique - who is this
hologram I've created of myself?
Done, in the name of Poetry... I've
sacrificed everything -
no life but work, no more family, no home, no
country - I am adrift
but martyrs never speak freely of their
martyrdom...
so what am I up to? Where is my case, my
files?