statistical extrapolation

bronchial fucker, your approximate talents

page the laceration squad, chip chip

chipping. where the heart is an apple

worms rejoice, no place, no signal,

check appetites & wantings, all joy & familiarities.

under the runbook the leather boots keep walking –

was there a dance? a pitcher of bourbon?

undoubtedly. this is how you build a theory &

later, awake from it. right? it’s that or

piss yourself, sometimes both. several

stories down, a wig rides the ginza line,

asleep & drooling slightly. wipe the baby

off your suit, numbnuts. fair dinkum,

you call that troubleshooting?

you only need process when no one has answers.

everbeige

eyes flick past the sleeping child blankets can’t contain,

fearless & impervious to cold. a thousand hondas

turn left simultaneously where strictures & blockage

describe the self / this model craves nicotine

& the kind of sausage they don’t sell here,

your tracksuit pants a gesture to athleticism

the body fails to follow, choking on its cocktail

frankfurt. all night the conversation traces

circles, outliving your disappointments.

once & future kink, mouth full of consequences.

otherwise you ash your ciggie, ebisu

department store letdown, even after shopping

in theory & beers lined up endlessly,

a bit like melbourne without the footie.