We measure mortals by unsturdy things/Tear leaves off of the sycamores/and pin down the butterfly’s wings

January. Disarrayed.

PhD gogogogoinggoinggone. All the bedroom floor weeping panic tight tight clenched body stress. Wading through concrete. Frayed rushed fleeing home. Sniping over your nut roast. Vomit. Never eat oysters on Christmas Eve.

Gadaffi with the cheesecake face. Too old to play Wendy.  Of course I remember you, little ingenue, who wears red lipstick well. The Aceh punks. Fallen armies of old Christmas trees crawling the streets. Do It Yourself is not written in the singular.

The final dismantlingdisentangling. Humiliation fighting relief. The sheer lightening of relief. ‘You look so well!’ ‘No, it’s A Matter Between The Institutions (….but this is my life…). A final lunch, buttered rolls.

The bar. A man with ‘Cut Here’ on his wrist.

One reading. Happy Verse Day. Nothing to say. The old snake stirring.

What would one wear to such an event?

A pair of stolen shoes.

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