dO you smell the crust
of the aging mutation,
with mY despair
spreading
on the epidermis like
a rash of Saturn;
I’m seated on the stool
of a cosmos, looking at
the eyes of the bartender
that serves one last
drink of bitter birth;
the memory of orange sequence
expanding in the wave
of the hour;
the noise was a velvet number
dialing red, green, blue
in the connection of perception —

a nook like the sun
an insignificance
with the oblivion spangled
moments.