what’s up, pal!
one of these days I’ll lose my
temper and throw bones
at you

morning…

a jug filled to the brim with rancid butts
he - diagonally writing
after a reading century

what’s up, pal! you couch potato
crucified there right in the
middle of a rusty myth
can’t you see Death bathing
into my Eye with the fallen breasts
like an eyelid?

when you keep yelling after a handy
one to snatch you out of
the charmed mouth of TV
as if I knew how to sing
in tempo with your fast drowning:

Comme tu disais que tu m’aimais!