The night sat on my face
like the smelly old ass
of a rotten moon
just on the day
I’ve been fired from life
wandering off on the cliffs
of who knows what conundrum
and joyfully composing the silly
gooey poetics of a drunken soul
I recall writing something about
the foulness of philosophical systems
or the moans of relic religions;
whatever it was,
the night and its greasy weight
sat on my face
like the spits of moonshine
that drunks burp out
on the face of a
lonesome hour.

nihilistic wanderings