decided to grow
a fucking beard
to save myself
having to stare
into a mirror at
a stranger’s face

old man hank had
it all figured out
grow a long beard
as an illusion of
wisdom when really
it’s to hide away

i just can’t be
fucking bothered
shaping my van dyke
i cannot see it and
it doesn’t provide
any significant value

i was never a pretty man
so there is no point in
trying to leave the world
a pretty corpse when it
isn’t within my power to
restructure bone structure

it all feels so
insignificant as i
slowly follow old
friedrich into a
solitary madness
in my sister’s attic

i think it was as much
being surrounded by people
as it was winning which
drove hank to the track
it gets lonely living
in a windowless zoo

maybe i will shave
the day one of my books
becomes a best seller
although the prospect
of a beard down to my
balls isn’t too enticing