I often curse Gods creations.

I’ve found them wretched, burning and burning

like a ball;

to me they are sometimes the sum of all bile.

I find them churning, and falling over each other, tossed around

by spirits and vicious unheard laughters

haunting everything.

I find them,

they find me,

wish they wouldn’t. Fuckers.

This is how we do

when the sunshine burns your skin off.

It’s as dangerous as drinking too much. Excess, my fellows,

is the pillar of all society, tempered with moderation.

The soul is in excess. The drive, the run.

Funny how it slips away when you get it.

Angry, maybe.

Like a child interested in other things than you,

or a cat obsessed with its solitude.

I sit on my hands and wait

I’d imagine if my mind wasn’t mired, again the word, in peat moss,

peat, or muckin mud fuckin mud. Mid shipmen, floating ocean,

the flotsam on the waves. Immobile on the skin of the sea

static, like your tv unchanging on an empty channel. Let a bird drop down

on either and your peace is disturbed. It’s gotta eat, right? Perhaps.