WHAT IS THAT PEOPLE THINK THEY KNOW THAT WE THINK WE KNOW

everything is beside you

all yes familiar constellations groaning with tired resentment

no one to really disappoint anymore

falling in love has become a habit

courtesy of craft beer and talk and talk and yes

and you and it all yes we know, don’t we, i know

and my love is dying

soon

i can only give you pieces of me, scraped off a mirror

with a tongue

must be a dead tongue

i applaud with no hands

in no forest, no seasons, just

bodies

resounding with customary cancer

i play fancy dress:

30 million renditions of Elvis

will leave you longing

what part of me can i still hand you

and have you surprised

must it be the very last (how can anyone know)

and if you accept

must we not still weep:

there goes history, inhabited by fools

and a ghoul

watching