once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking

the hearse comes through the room
the beheaded, the disappeared, the
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky pas
their wings will not

when you’re young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or

They don’t make it
the beautiful die in flame—
suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh
ever...
they rip their arms off,

never
even in calmer times
have I ever
dreamed of
bicycling through that

—he’s a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business

it
takes
a lot of
desperation
dissatisfaction

washed—up, on shore, the old yello
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.

I see old people on pensions in th
supermarkets and they are thin and
proud and they are dying
they are starving on their feet an
nothing. long ago, among other lie