It's too late for reality. The orange harvest moon Sucks out the colour And the world wanders In greys and blacks Arching trees loom and Scrabble for space in the Sky. The sky that is Thoroughly too thick With stars. The flickering  Lights that turn and wheel And yet remain the same To the patient eye. Hold The tallow burning in Your hand. Even as it burns Your hand - standing at  the window looking out at dark waves. It's not the Time for thinking. The  Clock has been coiled too Tight, and coldness rises From the harsh earth into Sleepers', restless in their Dreams - chilling muscle and Thought alike. Irrational,  Awake, and craving sleep Under a moon the colour of wheat.

When you're out there ducking under restless waves Those calls from the shore aren't usefull at all. Only you know the tide, what your eyes see, stinging though they may be. Body floating on the surface like seaweed Back on land what are you but a dry and dark mass? Thrown and poked, and run away from till your body cracks and breaks But out there is where you're from Rising and falling, Floating on warm Currents under a distant sun.

untied and out of bounds with twisted laces and scraped knees: blood. On the upside, slipping  down. wirring fans and icey stands. Sleepy heads buzz on windows. Shoes on seats, and spinning sounds. words are easy when there's nothing on your mind, and sand on the ground

THIS GLASS IS NOT A METAPHOR IT’S NOT THAT EMPTY OR EVEN FULL AT ALL. I HOLD WHAT I CANNOT GRASP IN THIS COLD AND TEARY GLASS. IT HOLDS MY HAND AND I EMPTY WHAT I CANDIDLY WOULD ASK A WAITER’S FRIEND TO POUR SO I CAN DRINK, AND HIT THE FLOOR