An aftermath of sorts
when nothing more can be said.
I’m a disembodied lyricist with stale cigarettes.

I cry at my own readings.
Signs signs everywhere there are signs,
says the marshmallow roasting connoisseur,
brandishing the fire with his long stick,

Remembering this melancholy of a place
that made me mutilate myself, always leading to
a move anywhere…away from this soil
better dose of guilt than the good book.

And why do they call it the good book
when so many people swear over it?

I only read half way.
Sullenly disjointed with my brain to pen.
I closed my eyes for a long time
as lashes no longer row back tears.