Weave a rug from belly-fluff and be done with it. A caretaker mops up hot sick craving Jesus on the cross.
You say you don’t believe in anything, I say, ‘Do you think that crabs exist?’, you say, ‘Well, I guess they are a thing that is’, so I say, ‘You believe in something then’.
And if you hold your tongue for too long it will dry out in the sun, like a raison but less fun to eat on a creaking playground swing.
These cracks in lips they look so comforting, warm red ravines where we can hear the echoes sing as we count what we’ve stolen.
In amongst the monuments to a night well spent, a spider wraps its legs tentatively round a cork.
We speak in rhythms, write in tributaries, listening to owls that shriek like crying babies.
The pavement shimmers in reflection of the stars but I couldn’t tell you where we are in relation to such things.
And under bridges people sleep with only ticket stubs and cigarettes butts to separate them from the road, as we just count what we’ve stolen.
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