I feel the skeleton
crying out loud

Death is a junkie
at loss for gratification

I stick it in
and twist it 'round;
the pencil
can't get sharp enough

I pull it out
and slash it along
at cut-throat ease;
words
talking to themselves,
among themselves
in half-dressed sentences
grouping up
like elementary school kids
in the yard

Howard Skempton redistributed
out of the chest of drawers;
the fresh air
flapping with jolly prayer streamers
of accordionity;
a prolonged activity
on an idea by Stuart Riddle
as the day banks hard
and groans
between now and then

Death is crying out loud
at the end of a pandemic workout

The skeleton is a pipe dream
with a bloody mission

Life shrugs its shoulders,
slipping into the shadows
of Bob Dylan's Tombstone Blues,
where dad eternally looks for the fuse

The world is an open wound
in time;
just in time

I'm crying out loud,
hearing the thunder rolling
between the hills,
waiting for the outcome
like everyone else

Life is a junkie
hooked on time