There are days
man & you see
what flood of joy
a street black drenched
2 o clock moonlessness
the hairs as kind of antennae
on the blue poet’s flesh
kiosk shines in van gogh yellow
automatic sliding doors
press in pin code, say thanks
a bottle of wine in hand
slow steps on way back
this skin feels like walls of pure sensation
the eternal crack of rain
key in keyhole
you’re home
twirling in air of cogs & columns
dipping stale bread in the wine
oh this slow chamber of death
where shadows
rest of their enigmas
where, above all, a man
finds his peace.

AbSURd PoEtry