the coffee sits
steaming
with a forlorn
haze
into the morning
silence
the occasional
bit of siren
or warbling
note of birdsong
all that manages
to pierce
this three ton
concrete bubble
slowly suffocating
the fool
who suffers silently
on the couch
trying not to
disturb his
lonely corner
of half existing.

he scribbles
bloody skintags
of nothingness
whispering
into a breeze
too cool
for so late
in april longings
falling between
rattling reverberations
skittering sounds
of natural deselection
between arcing
bursts of bonedeep
sorrow overlapping
a storm of sparks
demonic fireflies
coating every
aching desire
until he is no more
than ash in the
shape of her smile.