Here lies the spectacular broken soul
Alone in a narrow tomb of sickening solitude
Its disordered coffin in disarray; sheets untidy, unmade
Diseased, discarded, destitute
Fermenting amongst stale memories
Marinating within our dead-angles
Finally abandoned by all and themselves
Forgotten, frigid, faded
Benign resolution does not greet the door
Salvation glances over the sunken crypt
Nothing dare reaches this corner of the world
Near Halifax, near Belgium, near Shanghai

Memorised by a rapidly rotating ceiling-fan
Hypnotised on blank spots between meaning
Fixated on distant sounds nearby:
Linda’s vacuum churning, a volatile argument, gleeful children running
The white-noise decomposes the stillness
Stirring the obsolescence of the world
Objectifying matter into rational subjectivity;
The wallpaper sky, the strict side-eyes, the scripted neighbours
Magnificent isn’t it? The torment of their reflections
The brutality of their own presence
The lingering wrath of their aspirations
In dirty mirrors, in a debilitating mind, in electric smiles

No one dares approach the deceased
Resting in the heart’s decrepit skeleton
Died long ago, slowly buried within itself
The 24/7 drugstore clerk, the self-pitying alcoholic, the neglected child
No more left to lose, no more left to find
Waiting for tomorrow, wanting for yesterday
Tired of living, tired of dying
Up in the clouds, down to earth, under raging seas

From Monday, to August
From Sunset, to New-Year’s
They mourn themselves
Grieving, and longing, and searching
All remains pointless, directly inconsequential
The beholder beats necessities into suggestions
Imagine what they could be up to now:
Typing on a keyboard, limping down a back street, listening to the time skip
Everywhere, nowhere, all but where something is
Inside, outside, trapped between lies
Incoming, outgoing, or beyond-reach
Here on the chair, over-there below Long-Drop pier, up high on Rue de Piérre

They glare at the world
And in its despair
See their own
Reflections, refractions, infections
It won’t be long now they think
A silver lining after the decline
Bathroom floor, rock bottom, six feet under
And someday, sometime, one day soon
They lose that last more
Until the spectacle will have nothing left to lose but itself
Stripped, suffocated, no one left to be sorry to