these words never
really mattered
in the long run
what counted
was to be
true to that moment
without fear

my friend talks about rhythm
and the lack of balance
like a man
never satisfied
a gadabout, damaged
fuck it
who has time
to make sense anymore
it fits well enough
to those bored
and uncaring scavengers

these words
fucked
like
unloaded pistols
collecting dust
they are
lost
among opinions
and collectivism

the great ones had
their women
their wine
and suicidal fame
spreading their words
slower
by hand,
typewriter
and newsletter
i have something better
a computer
and
myself

these words
on a sunday evening
are all
I have left