Feed on

part three


i climb mountains now. those within a day’s drive

of my home. at the top & of the past &

now none of this is what i meant.


having not noticed the sunsets in a while.


this thought meaning we are through. that thought

meaning more, akin to the final gasp of a screenwriter,

tacky, clichéd, blankly lewd.


where were we when control was wrested?


part of a plaid montage, a featherweight bout no doubt,

me shrieking gorse bush blues & calling it ‘song’.

things are just like in the movies, see.


this fleet foxes soundtrack & a breeze are a sort of proof.

your sexy tattoo & the duplicitous story beneath

guide my private jet through re-entry, through this

alley with shrubs, a slide into town wherefore i’ll keep

all romantic processes loose now: cuddle myself

kiss girls, but only faceless, in the dark


we’d absorbed so much were

more somber than a sea captain’s wife

(one lamp plus her figure a wan shadow

seemingly swallowed in grey paint…)

in this way we are none of us commuters      or alone


but at the same time, i don’t like you.

we’re not close enough. she said.

do you understand?

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