calloused knuckles and radio songs intimate,
forcing the outside world in,
figures deluge beyond the Cartesian.
This here is condemned,
run-down house atop a restless tomb,
wherein the blind tornado sleepwalks,
cradled by the deepest roots,
lonely seeded from Adam's skull.
Step in, needle cushion, collection of comedowns,
polar north spells only nowhere,
the dead, never dead enough to bring out,
when the tremors of raging weakness
keep them awake through the sanguine dawn.
Crutched eyelids howl to fall,
but thoughts, twitching, carry on,
as ego bursts and blasts in anti-Zen,
a display nurtured to extract cheers and tears.
Always lost in stargaze from knee-dug glens of salt,
with nerves exposed to autumn's gnaw;
just let lie motionless.
