He busts everything he touches
and fills the empty space with accidents.
He holds all the ragged power
coiled in the muscles of a mutt.
He feeds on flesh and asphalt,
drunk with spectacle, choosing his heresies.
He says we have no future,
the present won't stay put
and the past changes with every memory
lost to the heat death of the universe.
He is that which moves.
He's doing lifelong research on gravity.
He won't even bother to lie grace
into his stumblings and stains, but revels
in disheveled ecstasy.
I cannot cease to stare but see
his dusty pathless plains
and his murders from a distance,
for now his dreamwork scaffolds my skull
as he renovates the house of reason,
tearing out a wire here
(I came home and found him shredding my orchids)
drilling holes in the drywall there
(he ripped pages from my dictionary to paper over the windows)
Whistling his night's folk-song
and bending the means to make ends meet,
he's built a room for praying and a room for fucking.
He's left us two no room to breathe.
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